"WIVES AND DAUGHTERS.\n\nAn Every-Day Story.\n\nby Mrs. Gaskell\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE DAWN OF A GALA DAY.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nTo begin with the old rigmarole of childhood. In a country there was\na shire, and in that shire there was a town, and in that town there\nwas a house, and in that house there was a room, and in that room\nthere was a bed, and in that bed there lay a little girl; wide awake\nand longing to get up, but not daring to do so for fear of the unseen\npower in the next room--a certain Betty, whose slumbers must not\nbe disturbed until six o'clock struck, when she wakened of herself\n\"as sure as clockwork,\" and left the household very little peace\nafterwards. It was a June morning, and early as it was, the room was\nfull of sunny warmth and light.\n\nOn the drawers opposite to the little white dimity bed in which Molly\nGibson lay, was a primitive kind of bonnet-stand on which was hung a\nbonnet, carefully covered over from any chance of dust with a large\ncotton handkerchief, of so heavy and serviceable a texture that if\nthe thing underneath it had been a flimsy fabric of gauze and lace\nand flowers, it would have been altogether \"scomfished\" (again to\nquote from Betty's vocabulary). But the bonnet was made of solid\nstraw, and its only trimming was a plain white ribbon put over the\ncrown, and forming the strings. Still, there was a neat little\nquilling inside, every plait of which Molly knew, for had she not\nmade it herself the evening before, with infinite pains? and was\nthere not a little blue bow in this quilling, the very first bit of\nsuch finery Molly had ever had the prospect of wearing?\n\nSix o'clock now! the pleasant, brisk ringing of the church bells told\nthat; calling every one to their daily work, as they had done for\nhundreds of years. Up jumped Molly, and ran with her bare little feet\nacross the room, and lifted off the handkerchief and saw once again\nthe bonnet; the pledge of the gay bright day to come. Then to the\nwindow, and after some tugging she opened the casement, and let in\nthe sweet morning air. The dew was already off the flowers in the\ngarden below, but still rising from the long hay-grass in the meadows\ndirectly beyond. At one side lay the little town of Hollingford,\ninto a street of which Mr. Gibson's front door opened; and delicate\ncolumns, and little puffs of smoke were already beginning to rise\nfrom many a cottage chimney where some housewife was already up, and\npreparing breakfast for the bread-winner of the family.\n\nMolly Gibson saw all this, but all she thought about it was, \"Oh! it\nwill be a fine day! I was afraid it never, never would come; or that,\nif it ever came, it would be a rainy day!\" Five-and-forty years ago,\nchildren's pleasures in a country town were very simple, and Molly\nhad lived for twelve long years without the occurrence of any event\nso great as that which was now impending. Poor child! it is true\nthat she had lost her mother, which was a jar to the whole tenour of\nher life; but that was hardly an event in the sense referred to; and\nbesides, she had been too young to be conscious of it at the time.\nThe pleasure she was looking forward to to-day was her first share in\na kind of annual festival in Hollingford.\n\nThe little straggling town faded away into country on one side close\nto the entrance-lodge of a great park, where lived my Lord and Lady\nCumnor: \"the earl\" and \"the countess,\" as they were always called by\nthe inhabitants of the town; where a very pretty amount of feudal\nfeeling still lingered, and showed itself in a number of simple ways,\ndroll enough to look back upon, but serious matters of importance\nat the time. It was before the passing of the Reform Bill, but a\ngood deal of liberal talk took place occasionally between two or\nthree of the more enlightened freeholders living in Hollingford;\nand there was a great Tory family in the county who, from time to\ntime, came forward and contested the election with the rival Whig\nfamily of Cumnor. One would have thought that the above-mentioned\nliberal-talking inhabitants would have, at least, admitted the\npossibility of their voting for the Hely-Harrison, and thus trying to\nvindicate their independence. But no such thing. \"The earl\" was lord\nof the manor, and owner of much of the land on which Hollingford was\nbuilt; he and his household were fed, and doctored, and, to a certain\nmeasure, clothed by the good people of the town; their fathers'\ngrandfathers had always voted for the eldest son of Cumnor Towers,\nand following in the ancestral track, every man-jack in the place\ngave his vote to the liege lord, totally irrespective of such\nchimeras as political opinion.\n\nThis was no unusual instance of the influence of the great\nland-owners over humbler neighbours in those days before railways,\nand it was well for a place where the powerful family, who thus\novershadowed it, were of so respectable a character as the Cumnors.\nThey expected to be submitted to, and obeyed; the simple worship of\nthe townspeople was accepted by the earl and countess as a right; and\nthey would have stood still in amazement, and with a horrid memory\nof the French sansculottes who were the bugbears of their youth, had\nany inhabitant of Hollingford ventured to set his will or opinions\nin opposition to those of the earl. But, yielded all that obeisance,\nthey did a good deal for the town, and were generally condescending,\nand often thoughtful and kind in their treatment of their vassals.\nLord Cumnor was a forbearing landlord; putting his steward a little\non one side sometimes, and taking the reins into his own hands now\nand then, much to the annoyance of the agent, who was, in fact, too\nrich and independent to care greatly for preserving a post where his\ndecisions might any day be overturned by my lord's taking a fancy\nto go \"pottering\" (as the agent irreverently expressed it in the\nsanctuary of his own home), which, being interpreted, meant that\noccasionally the earl asked his own questions of his own tenants,\nand used his own eyes and ears in the management of the smaller\ndetails of his property. But his tenants liked my lord all the better\nfor this habit of his. Lord Cumnor had certainly a little time for\ngossip, which he contrived to combine with the failing of personal\nintervention between the old land-steward and the tenantry. But,\nthen, the countess made up by her unapproachable dignity for this\nweakness of the earl's. Once a year she was condescending. She and\nthe ladies, her daughters, had set up a school; not a school after\nthe manner of schools now-a-days, where far better intellectual\nteaching is given to the boys and girls of labourers and work-people\nthan often falls to the lot of their betters in worldly estate; but\na school of the kind we should call \"industrial,\" where girls are\ntaught to sew beautifully, to be capital housemaids, and pretty fair\ncooks, and, above all, to dress neatly in a kind of charity uniform\ndevised by the ladies of Cumnor Towers;--white caps, white tippets,\ncheck aprons, blue gowns, and ready curtseys, and \"please, ma'ams,\"\nbeing _de rigueur_.\n\nNow, as the countess was absent from the Towers for a considerable\npart of the year, she was glad to enlist the sympathy of the\nHollingford ladies in this school, with a view to obtaining their aid\nas visitors during the many months that she and her daughters were\naway. And the various unoccupied gentlewomen of the town responded to\nthe call of their liege lady, and gave her their service as required;\nand along with it, a great deal of whispered and fussy admiration.\n\"How good of the countess! So like the dear countess--always thinking\nof others!\" and so on; while it was always supposed that no strangers\nhad seen Hollingford properly, unless they had been taken to the\ncountess's school, and been duly impressed by the neat little pupils,\nand the still neater needlework there to be inspected. In return,\nthere was a day of honour set apart every summer, when with much\ngracious and stately hospitality, Lady Cumnor and her daughters\nreceived all the school visitors at the Towers, the great family\nmansion standing in aristocratic seclusion in the centre of the large\npark, of which one of the lodges was close to the little town. The\norder of this annual festivity was this. About ten o'clock one of the\nTowers' carriages rolled through the lodge, and drove to different\nhouses, wherein dwelt a woman to be honoured; picking them up by ones\nor twos, till the loaded carriage drove back again through the ready\nportals, bowled along the smooth tree-shaded road, and deposited its\ncovey of smartly-dressed ladies on the great flight of steps leading\nto the ponderous doors of Cumnor Towers. Back again to the town;\nanother picking up of womankind in their best clothes, and another\nreturn, and so on till the whole party were assembled either in the\nhouse or in the really beautiful gardens. After the proper amount of\nexhibition on the one part, and admiration on the other, had been\ndone, there was a collation for the visitors, and some more display\nand admiration of the treasures inside the house. Towards four\no'clock, coffee was brought round; and this was a signal of the\napproaching carriage that was to take them back to their own homes;\nwhither they returned with the happy consciousness of a well-spent\nday, but with some fatigue at the long-continued exertion of behaving\ntheir best, and talking on stilts for so many hours. Nor were\nLady Cumnor and her daughters free from something of the same\nself-approbation, and something, too, of the same fatigue; the\nfatigue that always follows on conscious efforts to behave as will\nbest please the society you are in.\n\nFor the first time in her life, Molly Gibson was to be included among\nthe guests at the Towers. She was much too young to be a visitor at\nthe school, so it was not on that account that she was to go; but it\nhad so happened that one day when Lord Cumnor was on a \"pottering\"\nexpedition, he had met Mr. Gibson, _the_ doctor of the neighbourhood,\ncoming out of the farm-house my lord was entering; and having some\nsmall question to ask the surgeon (Lord Cumnor seldom passed any\none of his acquaintance without asking a question of some sort--not\nalways attending to the answer; it was his mode of conversation), he\naccompanied Mr. Gibson to the out-building, to a ring in the wall of\nwhich the surgeon's horse was fastened. Molly was there too, sitting\nsquare and quiet on her rough little pony, waiting for her father.\nHer grave eyes opened large and wide at the close neighbourhood and\nevident advance of \"the earl;\" for to her little imagination the\ngrey-haired, red-faced, somewhat clumsy man, was a cross between an\narch-angel and a king.\n\n\"Your daughter, eh, Gibson?--nice little girl, how old? Pony wants\ngrooming though,\" patting it as he talked. \"What's your name,\nmy dear? He's sadly behindhand with his rent, as I was saying,\nbut if he's really ill, I must see after Sheepshanks, who is a\nhardish man of business. What's his complaint? You'll come to our\nschool-scrimmage on Thursday, little girl--what's-your-name? Mind you\nsend her, or bring her, Gibson; and just give a word to your groom,\nfor I'm sure that pony wasn't singed last year, now, was he? Don't\nforget Thursday, little girl--what's-your-name?--it's a promise\nbetween us, is it not?\" And off the earl trotted, attracted by the\nsight of the farmer's eldest son on the other side of the yard.\n\nMr. Gibson mounted, and he and Molly rode off. They did not speak\nfor some time. Then she said, \"May I go, papa?\" in rather an anxious\nlittle tone of voice.\n\n\"Where, my dear?\" said he, wakening up out of his own professional\nthoughts.\n\n\"To the Towers--on Thursday, you know. That gentleman\" (she was shy\nof calling him by his title), \"asked me.\"\n\n\"Would you like it, my dear? It has always seemed to me rather a\ntiresome piece of gaiety--rather a tiring day, I mean--beginning so\nearly--and the heat, and all that.\"\n\n\"Oh, papa!\" said Molly, reproachfully.\n\n\"You'd like to go then, would you?\"\n\n\"Yes; if I may!--He asked me, you know. Don't you think I may?--he\nasked me twice over.\"\n\n\"Well! we'll see--yes! I think we can manage it, if you wish it so\nmuch, Molly.\"\n\nThen they were silent again. By-and-by, Molly said,--\n\n\"Please, papa--I do wish to go,--but I don't care about it.\"\n\n\"That's rather a puzzling speech. But I suppose you mean you don't\ncare to go, if it will be any trouble to get you there. I can easily\nmanage it, however, so you may consider it settled. You'll want a\nwhite frock, remember; you'd better tell Betty you're going, and\nshe'll see after making you tidy.\"\n\nNow, there were two or three things to be done by Mr. Gibson, before\nhe could feel quite comfortable about Molly's going to the festival\nat the Towers, and each of them involved a little trouble on his\npart. But he was very willing to gratify his little girl; so the\nnext day he rode over to the Towers, ostensibly to visit some sick\nhousemaid, but, in reality, to throw himself in my lady's way, and\nget her to ratify Lord Cumnor's invitation to Molly. He chose his\ntime, with a little natural diplomacy; which, indeed, he had often\nto exercise in his intercourse with the great family. He rode into\nthe stable-yard about twelve o'clock, a little before luncheon-time,\nand yet after the worry of opening the post-bag and discussing its\ncontents was over. After he had put up his horse, he went in by the\nback-way to the house; the \"House\" on this side, the \"Towers\" at the\nfront. He saw his patient, gave his directions to the housekeeper,\nand then went out, with a rare wild-flower in his hand, to find one\nof the ladies Tranmere in the garden, where, according to his hope\nand calculation, he came upon Lady Cumnor too,--now talking to her\ndaughter about the contents of an open letter which she held in her\nhand, now directing a gardener about certain bedding-out plants.\n\n\"I was calling to see Nanny, and I took the opportunity of bringing\nLady Agnes the plant I was telling her about as growing on Cumnor\nMoss.\"\n\n\"Thank you, so much, Mr. Gibson. Mamma, look! this is the _Drosera\nrotundifolia_ I have been wanting so long.\"\n\n\"Ah! yes; very pretty I daresay, only I am no botanist. Nanny is\nbetter, I hope? We can't have any one laid up next week, for the\nhouse will be quite full of people,--and here are the Danbys waiting\nto offer themselves as well. One comes down for a fortnight of quiet,\nat Whitsuntide, and leaves half one's establishment in town, and as\nsoon as people know of our being here, we get letters without end,\nlonging for a breath of country air, or saying how lovely the Towers\nmust look in spring; and I must own, Lord Cumnor is a great deal to\nblame for it all, for as soon as ever we are down here, he rides\nabout to all the neighbours, and invites them to come over and spend\na few days.\"\n\n\"We shall go back to town on Friday the 18th,\" said Lady Agnes, in a\nconsolatory tone.\n\n\"Ah, yes! as soon as we have got over the school visitors' affair.\nBut it is a week to that happy day.\"\n\n\"By the way!\" said Mr. Gibson, availing himself of the good opening\nthus presented, \"I met my lord at the Cross-trees Farm yesterday, and\nhe was kind enough to ask my little daughter, who was with me, to be\none of the party here on Thursday; it would give the lassie great\npleasure, I believe.\" He paused for Lady Cumnor to speak.\n\n\"Oh, well! if my lord asked her, I suppose she must come, but I wish\nhe was not so amazingly hospitable! Not but what the little girl will\nbe quite welcome; only, you see, he met a younger Miss Browning the\nother day, of whose existence I had never heard.\"\n\n\"She visits at the school, mamma,\" said Lady Agnes.\n\n\"Well, perhaps she does; I never said she did not. I knew there was\none visitor of the name of Browning; I never knew there were two,\nbut, of course, as soon as Lord Cumnor heard there was another, he\nmust needs ask her; so the carriage will have to go backwards and\nforwards four times now to fetch them all. So your daughter can come\nquite easily, Mr. Gibson, and I shall be very glad to see her for\nyour sake. She can sit bodkin with the Brownings, I suppose? You'll\narrange it all with them; and mind you get Nanny well up to her work\nnext week.\"\n\nJust as Mr. Gibson was going away, Lady Cumnor called after him, \"Oh!\nby-the-by, Clare is here; you remember Clare, don't you? She was a\npatient of yours, long ago.\"\n\n\"Clare,\" he repeated, in a bewildered tone.\n\n\"Don't you recollect her? Miss Clare, our old governess,\" said Lady\nAgnes. \"About twelve or fourteen years ago, before Lady Cuxhaven was\nmarried.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" said he. \"Miss Clare, who had the scarlet fever here; a\nvery pretty delicate girl. But I thought she was married!\"\n\n\"Yes!\" said Lady Cumnor. \"She was a silly little thing, and did\nnot know when she was well off; we were all very fond of her, I'm\nsure. She went and married a poor curate, and became a stupid Mrs.\nKirkpatrick; but we always kept on calling her 'Clare.' And now\nhe's dead, and left her a widow, and she is staying here; and we\nare racking our brains to find out some way of helping her to a\nlivelihood without parting her from her child. She's somewhere about\nthe grounds, if you like to renew your acquaintance with her.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my lady. I'm afraid I cannot stop to-day. I have a long\nround to go; I've stayed here too long as it is, I'm afraid.\"\n\nLong as his ride had been that day, he called on the Miss Brownings\nin the evening, to arrange about Molly's accompanying them to the\nTowers. They were tall handsome women, past their first youth, and\ninclined to be extremely complaisant to the widowed doctor.\n\n\"Eh dear! Mr. Gibson, but we shall be delighted to have her with us.\nYou should never have thought of asking us such a thing,\" said Miss\nBrowning the elder.\n\n\"I'm sure I'm hardly sleeping at nights for thinking of it,\" said\nMiss Phoebe. \"You know I've never been there before. Sister has\nmany a time; but somehow, though my name has been down on the\nvisitors' list these three years, the countess has never named me in\nher note; and you know I could not push myself into notice, and go to\nsuch a grand place without being asked; how could I?\"\n\n\"I told Phoebe last year,\" said her sister, \"that I was sure it was\nonly inadvertence, as one may call it, on the part of the countess,\nand that her ladyship would be as hurt as any one when she didn't\nsee Phoebe among the school visitors; but Phoebe has got a delicate\nmind, you see, Mr. Gibson, and all I could say she wouldn't go, but\nstopped here at home; and it spoilt all my pleasure all that day,\nI do assure you, to think of Phoebe's face, as I saw it over the\nwindow-blinds, as I rode away; her eyes were full of tears, if you'll\nbelieve me.\"\n\n\"I had a good cry after you was gone, Dorothy,\" said Miss Phoebe;\n\"but for all that, I think I was right in stopping away from where\nI was not asked. Don't you, Mr. Gibson?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said he. \"And you see you are going this year; and last\nyear it rained.\"\n\n\"Yes! I remember! I set myself to tidy my drawers, to string myself\nup, as it were; and I was so taken up with what I was about that\nI was quite startled when I heard the rain beating against the\nwindow-panes. 'Goodness me!' said I to myself, 'whatever will become\nof sister's white satin shoes, if she has to walk about on soppy\ngrass after such rain as this?' for, you see, I thought a deal about\nher having a pair of smart shoes; and this year she has gone and got\nme a white satin pair just as smart as hers, for a surprise.\"\n\n\"Molly will know she's to put on her best clothes,\" said Miss\nBrowning. \"We could perhaps lend her a few beads, or artificials, if\nshe wants them.\"\n\n\"Molly must go in a clean white frock,\" said Mr. Gibson, rather\nhastily; for he did not admire the Miss Brownings' taste in dress,\nand was unwilling to have his child decked up according to their\nfancy; he esteemed his old servant Betty's as the more correct,\nbecause the more simple. Miss Browning had just a shade of annoyance\nin her tone as she drew herself up, and said, \"Oh! very well. It's\nquite right, I'm sure.\" But Miss Phoebe said, \"Molly will look very\nnice in whatever she puts on, that's certain.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nA NOVICE AMONGST THE GREAT FOLK.\n\n\nAt ten o'clock on the eventful Thursday the Towers' carriage began\nits work. Molly was ready long before it made its first appearance,\nalthough it had been settled that she and the Miss Brownings were not\nto go until the last, or fourth, time of its coming. Her face had\nbeen soaped, scrubbed, and shone brilliantly clean; her frills, her\nfrock, her ribbons were all snow-white. She had on a black mode cloak\nthat had been her mother's; it was trimmed round with rich lace, and\nlooked quaint and old-fashioned on the child. For the first time in\nher life she wore kid gloves; hitherto she had only had cotton ones.\nHer gloves were far too large for the little dimpled fingers, but as\nBetty had told her they were to last her for years, it was all very\nwell. She trembled many a time, and almost turned faint once with the\nlong expectation of the morning. Betty might say what she liked about\na watched pot never boiling; Molly never ceased to watch the approach\nthrough the winding street, and after two hours the carriage came\nfor her at last. She had to sit very forward to avoid crushing the\nMiss Brownings' new dresses; and yet not too forward, for fear of\nincommoding fat Mrs. Goodenough and her niece, who occupied the\nfront seat of the carriage; so that altogether the fact of sitting\ndown at all was rather doubtful, and to add to her discomfort, Molly\nfelt herself to be very conspicuously placed in the centre of the\ncarriage, a mark for all the observation of Hollingford. It was far\ntoo much of a gala day for the work of the little town to go forward\nwith its usual regularity. Maid-servants gazed out of upper windows;\nshopkeepers' wives stood on the door-steps; cottagers ran out, with\nbabies in their arms; and little children, too young to know how\nto behave respectfully at the sight of an earl's carriage, huzzaed\nmerrily as it bowled along. The woman at the lodge held the gate\nopen, and dropped a low curtsey to the liveries. And now they were\nin the Park; and now they were in sight of the Towers, and silence\nfell upon the carriage-full of ladies, only broken by one faint\nremark from Mrs. Goodenough's niece, a stranger to the town, as they\ndrew up before the double semicircle flight of steps which led to the\ndoor of the mansion.\n\n\"They call that a perron, I believe, don't they?\" she asked. But\nthe only answer she obtained was a simultaneous \"hush.\" It was very\nawful, as Molly thought, and she half wished herself at home again.\nBut she lost all consciousness of herself by-and-by when the party\nstrolled out into the beautiful grounds, the like of which she\nhad never even imagined. Green velvet lawns, bathed in sunshine,\nstretched away on every side into the finely wooded park; if there\nwere divisions and ha-has between the soft sunny sweeps of grass, and\nthe dark gloom of the forest-trees beyond, Molly did not see them;\nand the melting away of exquisite cultivation into the wilderness\nhad an inexplicable charm to her. Near the house there were walls\nand fences; but they were covered with climbing roses, and rare\nhoneysuckles and other creepers just bursting into bloom. There were\nflower-beds, too, scarlet, crimson, blue, orange; masses of blossom\nlying on the greensward. Molly held Miss Browning's hand very tight\nas they loitered about in company with several other ladies, and\nmarshalled by a daughter of the Towers, who seemed half amused at the\nvoluble admiration showered down upon every possible thing and place.\nMolly said nothing, as became her age and position, but every now and\nthen she relieved her full heart by drawing a deep breath, almost\nlike a sigh. Presently they came to the long glittering range of\ngreenhouses and hothouses, and an attendant gardener was there to\nadmit the party. Molly did not care for this half so much as for\nthe flowers in the open air; but Lady Agnes had a more scientific\ntaste, she expatiated on the rarity of this plant, and the mode of\ncultivation required by that, till Molly began to feel very tired,\nand then very faint. She was too shy to speak for some time; but at\nlength, afraid of making a greater sensation if she began to cry, or\nif she fell against the stands of precious flowers, she caught at\nMiss Browning's hand, and gasped out--\n\n\"May I go back, out into the garden? I can't breathe here!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, to be sure, love. I daresay it's hard understanding for\nyou, love; but it's very fine and instructive, and a deal of Latin in\nit too.\"\n\nShe turned hastily round not to lose another word of Lady Agnes'\nlecture on orchids, and Molly turned back and passed out of the\nheated atmosphere. She felt better in the fresh air; and unobserved,\nand at liberty, went from one lovely spot to another, now in the open\npark, now in some shut-in flower-garden, where the song of the birds,\nand the drip of the central fountain, were the only sounds, and the\ntree-tops made an enclosing circle in the blue June sky; she went\nalong without more thought as to her whereabouts than a butterfly\nhas, as it skims from flower to flower, till at length she grew\nvery weary, and wished to return to the house, but did not know\nhow, and felt afraid of encountering all the strangers who would be\nthere, unprotected by either of the Miss Brownings. The hot sun told\nupon her head, and it began to ache. She saw a great wide-spreading\ncedar-tree upon a burst of lawn towards which she was advancing, and\nthe black repose beneath its branches lured her thither. There was\na rustic seat in the shadow, and weary Molly sate down there, and\npresently fell asleep.\n\nShe was startled from her slumbers after a time, and jumped to her\nfeet. Two ladies were standing by her, talking about her. They were\nperfect strangers to her, and with a vague conviction that she had\ndone something wrong, and also because she was worn-out with hunger,\nfatigue, and the morning's excitement, she began to cry.\n\n\"Poor little woman! She has lost herself; she belongs to some of the\npeople from Hollingford, I have no doubt,\" said the oldest-looking of\nthe two ladies; she who appeared to be about forty, though she did\nnot really number more than thirty years. She was plain-featured, and\nhad rather a severe expression on her face; her dress was as rich as\nany morning dress could be; her voice deep and unmodulated,--what in\na lower rank of life would have been called gruff; but that was not a\nword to apply to Lady Cuxhaven, the eldest daughter of the earl and\ncountess. The other lady looked much younger, but she was in fact\nsome years the elder; at first sight Molly thought she was the most\nbeautiful person she had ever seen, and she was certainly a very\nlovely woman. Her voice, too, was soft and plaintive, as she replied\nto Lady Cuxhaven,--\n\n\"Poor little darling! she is overcome by the heat, I have no\ndoubt--such a heavy straw bonnet, too. Let me untie it for you, my\ndear.\"\n\nMolly now found voice to say--\"I am Molly Gibson, please. I came here\nwith Miss Brownings;\" for her great fear was that she should be taken\nfor an unauthorized intruder.\n\n\"Miss Brownings?\" said Lady Cuxhaven to her companion, as if\ninquiringly.\n\n\"I think they were the two tall large young women that Lady Agnes was\ntalking about.\"\n\n\"Oh, I daresay. I saw she had a number of people in tow;\" then\nlooking again at Molly, she said, \"Have you had anything to eat,\nchild, since you came? You look a very white little thing; or is it\nthe heat?\"\n\n\"I have had nothing to eat,\" said Molly, rather piteously; for,\nindeed, before she fell asleep she had been very hungry.\n\nThe two ladies spoke to each other in a low voice; then the elder\nsaid in a voice of authority, which, indeed, she had always used in\nspeaking to the other, \"Sit still here, my dear; we are going to the\nhouse, and Clare shall bring you something to eat before you try to\nwalk back; it must be a quarter of a mile at least.\" So they went\naway, and Molly sat upright, waiting for the promised messenger. She\ndid not know who Clare might be, and she did not care much for food\nnow; but she felt as if she could not walk without some help. At\nlength she saw the pretty lady coming back, followed by a footman\nwith a small tray.\n\n\"Look how kind Lady Cuxhaven is,\" said she who was called Clare. \"She\nchose you out this little lunch herself; and now you must try and eat\nit, and you'll be quite right when you've had some food, darling--You\nneed not stop, Edwards; I will bring the tray back with me.\"\n\nThere was some bread, and some cold chicken, and some jelly, and\na glass of wine, and a bottle of sparkling water, and a bunch of\ngrapes. Molly put out her trembling little hand for the water; but\nshe was too faint to hold it. Clare put it to her mouth, and she took\na long draught and was refreshed. But she could not eat; she tried,\nbut she could not; her headache was too bad. Clare looked bewildered.\n\"Take some grapes, they will be the best for you; you must try and\neat something, or I don't know how I shall get you to the house.\"\n\n\"My head aches so,\" said Molly, lifting her heavy eyes wistfully.\n\n\"Oh, dear, how tiresome!\" said Clare, still in her sweet gentle\nvoice, not at all as if she was angry, only expressing an obvious\ntruth. Molly felt very guilty and very unhappy. Clare went on, with a\nshade of asperity in her tone: \"You see, I don't know what to do with\nyou here if you don't eat enough to enable you to walk home. And I've\nbeen out for these three hours trapesing about the grounds till I'm\nas tired as can be, and missed my lunch and all.\" Then, as if a new\nidea had struck her, she said,--\"You lie back in that seat for a few\nminutes, and try to eat the bunch of grapes, and I'll wait for you,\nand just be eating a mouthful meanwhile. You are sure you don't want\nthis chicken?\"\n\nMolly did as she was bid, and leant back, picking languidly at the\ngrapes, and watching the good appetite with which the lady ate up the\nchicken and jelly, and drank the glass of wine. She was so pretty and\nso graceful in her deep mourning, that even her hurry in eating, as\nif she was afraid of some one coming to surprise her in the act, did\nnot keep her little observer from admiring her in all she did.\n\n\"And now, darling, are you ready to go?\" said she, when she had eaten\nup everything on the tray. \"Oh, come; you have nearly finished your\ngrapes; that's a good girl. Now, if you will come with me to the\nside entrance, I will take you up to my own room, and you shall lie\ndown on the bed for an hour or two; and if you have a good nap your\nheadache will be quite gone.\"\n\nSo they set off, Clare carrying the empty tray, rather to Molly's\nshame; but the child had enough work to drag herself along, and was\nafraid of offering to do anything more. The \"side entrance\" was\na flight of steps leading up from a private flower-garden into a\nprivate matted hall, or ante-room, out of which many doors opened,\nand in which were deposited the light garden-tools and the bows and\narrows of the young ladies of the house. Lady Cuxhaven must have seen\ntheir approach, for she met them in this hall as soon as they came\nin.\n\n\"How is she now?\" she asked; then glancing at the plates and glasses,\nshe added, \"Come, I think there can't be much amiss! You're a good\nold Clare, but you should have let one of the men fetch that tray in;\nlife in such weather as this is trouble enough of itself.\"\n\nMolly could not help wishing that her pretty companion would have\ntold Lady Cuxhaven that she herself had helped to finish up the\nample luncheon; but no such idea seemed to come into her mind. She\nonly said,--\"Poor dear! she is not quite the thing yet; has got a\nheadache, she says. I am going to put her down on my bed, to see if\nshe can get a little sleep.\"\n\nMolly saw Lady Cuxhaven say something in a half-laughing manner\nto \"Clare,\" as she passed her; and the child could not keep from\ntormenting herself by fancying that the words spoken sounded\nwonderfully like \"Over-eaten herself, I suspect.\" However, she felt\ntoo poorly to worry herself long; the little white bed in the cool\nand pretty room had too many attractions for her aching head. The\nmuslin curtains flapped softly from time to time in the scented air\nthat came through the open windows. Clare covered her up with a light\nshawl, and darkened the room. As she was going away Molly roused\nherself to say, \"Please, ma'am, don't let them go away without me.\nPlease ask somebody to waken me if I go to sleep. I am to go back\nwith Miss Brownings.\"\n\n\"Don't trouble yourself about it, dear; I'll take care,\" said Clare,\nturning round at the door, and kissing her hand to little anxious\nMolly. And then she went away, and thought no more about it.\nThe carriages came round at half-past four, hurried a little by\nLady Cumnor, who had suddenly become tired of the business of\nentertaining, and annoyed at the repetition of indiscriminating\nadmiration.\n\n\"Why not have both carriages out, mamma, and get rid of them all at\nonce?\" said Lady Cuxhaven. \"This going by instalments is the most\ntiresome thing that could be imagined.\" So at last there had been a\ngreat hurry and an unmethodical way of packing off every one at once.\nMiss Browning had gone in the chariot (or \"chawyot,\" as Lady Cumnor\ncalled it;--it rhymed to her daughter, Lady Hawyot--or Harriet,\nas the name was spelt in the _Peerage_), and Miss Phoebe had been\nspeeded along with several other guests, away in a great roomy family\nconveyance, of the kind which we should now call an \"omnibus.\" Each\nthought that Molly Gibson was with the other, and the truth was, that\nshe lay fast asleep on Mrs. Kirkpatrick's bed--Mrs. Kirkpatrick _née_\nClare.\n\nThe housemaids came in to arrange the room. Their talking aroused\nMolly, who sat up on the bed, and tried to push back the hair from\nher hot forehead, and to remember where she was. She dropped down on\nher feet by the side of the bed, to the astonishment of the women,\nand said,--\"Please, how soon are we going away?\"\n\n\"Bless us and save us! who'd ha' thought of any one being in the bed?\nAre you one of the Hollingford ladies, my dear? They are all gone\nthis hour or more!\"\n\n\"Oh, dear, what shall I do? That lady they call Clare promised to\nwaken me in time. Papa will so wonder where I am, and I don't know\nwhat Betty will say.\"\n\nThe child began to cry, and the housemaids looked at each other\nin some dismay and much sympathy. Just then, they heard Mrs.\nKirkpatrick's step along the passages, approaching. She was singing\nsome little Italian air in a low musical voice, coming to her bedroom\nto dress for dinner. One housemaid said to the other, with a knowing\nlook, \"Best leave it to her;\" and they passed on to their work in the\nother rooms.\n\nMrs. Kirkpatrick opened the door, and stood aghast at the sight of\nMolly.\n\n\"Why, I quite forgot you!\" she said at length. \"Nay, don't cry;\nyou'll make yourself not fit to be seen. Of course I must take the\nconsequences of your over-sleeping yourself, and if I can't manage to\nget you back to Hollingford to-night, you shall sleep with me, and\nwe'll do our best to send you home to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"But papa!\" sobbed out Molly. \"He always wants me to make tea for\nhim; and I have no night-things.\"\n\n\"Well, don't go and make a piece of work about what can't be helped\nnow. I'll lend you night-things, and your papa must do without your\nmaking tea for him to-night. And another time don't over-sleep\nyourself in a strange house; you may not always find yourself among\nsuch hospitable people as they are here. Why now, if you don't cry\nand make a figure of yourself, I'll ask if you may come in to dessert\nwith Master Smythe and the little ladies. You shall go into the\nnursery, and have some tea with them; and then you must come back\nhere and brush your hair and make yourself tidy. I think it is a very\nfine thing for you to be stopping in such a grand house as this; many\na little girl would like nothing better.\"\n\nDuring this speech she was arranging her toilette for dinner--taking\noff her black morning gown; putting on her dressing-gown; shaking her\nlong soft auburn hair over her shoulders, and glancing about the room\nin search of various articles of her dress,--a running flow of easy\ntalk came babbling out all the time.\n\n\"I have a little girl of my own, dear! I don't know what she would\nnot give to be staying here at Lord Cumnor's with me; but, instead\nof that, she has to spend her holidays at school; and yet you are\nlooking as miserable as can be at the thought of stopping for\njust one night. I really have been as busy as can be with those\ntiresome--those good ladies, I mean, from Hollingford--and one can't\nthink of everything at a time.\"\n\nMolly--only child as she was--had stopped her tears at the mention\nof that little girl of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, and now she ventured to\nsay,--\n\n\"Are you married, ma'am; I thought she called you Clare?\"\n\nIn high good-humour Mrs. Kirkpatrick made reply:--\"I don't look as\nif I was married, do I? Every one is surprised. And yet I have been\na widow for seven months now: and not a grey hair on my head, though\nLady Cuxhaven, who is younger than I, has ever so many.\"\n\n\"Why do they call you 'Clare?'\" continued Molly, finding her so\naffable and communicative.\n\n\"Because I lived with them when I was Miss Clare. It is a pretty\nname, isn't it? I married a Mr. Kirkpatrick; he was only a curate,\npoor fellow; but he was of a very good family, and if three of his\nrelations had died without children I should have been a baronet's\nwife. But Providence did not see fit to permit it; and we must always\nresign ourselves to what is decreed. Two of his cousins married, and\nhad large families; and poor dear Kirkpatrick died, leaving me a\nwidow.\"\n\n\"You have a little girl?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"Yes: darling Cynthia! I wish you could see her; she is my only\ncomfort now. If I have time I will show you her picture when we come\nup to bed; but I must go now. It does not do to keep Lady Cumnor\nwaiting a moment, and she asked me to be down early, to help with\nsome of the people in the house. Now I shall ring this bell, and when\nthe housemaid comes, ask her to take you into the nursery, and to\ntell Lady Cuxhaven's nurse who you are. And then you'll have tea with\nthe little ladies, and come in with them to dessert. There! I'm sorry\nyou've over-slept yourself, and are left here; but give me a kiss,\nand don't cry--you really are rather a pretty child, though you've\nnot got Cynthia's colouring! Oh, Nanny, would you be so very kind as\nto take this young lady--(what's your name, my dear? Gibson?),--Miss\nGibson, to Mrs. Dyson, in the nursery, and ask her to allow her to\ndrink tea with the young ladies there; and to send her in with them\nto dessert. I'll explain it all to my lady.\"\n\nNanny's face brightened out of its gloom when she heard the name\nGibson; and, having ascertained from Molly that she was \"the\ndoctor's\" child, she showed more willingness to comply with Mrs.\nKirkpatrick's request than was usual with her.\n\nMolly was an obliging girl, and fond of children; so, as long as she\nwas in the nursery, she got on pretty well, being obedient to the\nwishes of the supreme power, and even very useful to Mrs. Dyson, by\nplaying at tricks, and thus keeping a little one quiet while its\nbrothers and sisters were being arrayed in gay attire,--lace and\nmuslin, and velvet, and brilliant broad ribbons.\n\n\"Now, miss,\" said Mrs. Dyson, when her own especial charge were all\nready, \"what can I do for you? You have not got another frock here,\nhave you?\" No, indeed, she had not; nor if she had had one, could it\nhave been of a smarter nature than her present thick white dimity.\nSo she could only wash her face and hands, and submit to the nurse's\nbrushing and perfuming her hair. She thought she would rather have\nstayed in the park all night long, and slept under the beautiful\nquiet cedar, than have to undergo the unknown ordeal of \"going\ndown to dessert,\" which was evidently regarded both by children and\nnurses as the event of the day. At length there was a summons from\na footman, and Mrs. Dyson, in a rustling silk gown, marshalled her\nconvoy, and set sail for the dining-room door.\n\nThere was a large party of gentlemen and ladies sitting round the\ndecked table, in the brilliantly lighted room. Each dainty little\nchild ran up to its mother, or aunt, or particular friend; but Molly\nhad no one to go to.\n\n\"Who is that tall girl in the thick white frock? Not one of the\nchildren of the house, I think?\"\n\nThe lady addressed put up her glass, gazed at Molly, and dropped it\nin an instant. \"A French girl, I should imagine. I know Lady Cuxhaven\nwas inquiring for one to bring up with her little girls, that they\nmight get a good accent early. Poor little woman, she looks wild\nand strange!\" And the speaker, who sate next to Lord Cumnor, made a\nlittle sign to Molly to come to her; Molly crept up to her as to the\nfirst shelter; but when the lady began talking to her in French, she\nblushed violently, and said in a very low voice,--\n\n\"I don't understand French. I'm only Molly Gibson, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Molly Gibson!\" said the lady, out loud; as if that was not much of\nan explanation.\n\nLord Cumnor caught the words and the tone.\n\n\"Oh, ho!\" said he. \"Are you the little girl who has been sleeping in\nmy bed?\"\n\nHe imitated the deep voice of the fabulous bear, who asks this\nquestion of the little child in the story; but Molly had never read\nthe \"Three Bears,\" and fancied that his anger was real; she trembled\na little, and drew nearer to the kind lady who had beckoned her as\nto a refuge. Lord Cumnor was very fond of getting hold of what he\nfancied was a joke, and working his idea threadbare; so all the time\nthe ladies were in the room he kept on his running fire at Molly,\nalluding to the Sleeping Beauty, the Seven Sleepers, and any other\nfamous sleeper that came into his head. He had no idea of the misery\nhis jokes were to the sensitive girl, who already thought herself\na miserable sinner, for having slept on, when she ought to have\nbeen awake. If Molly had been in the habit of putting two and two\ntogether, she might have found an excuse for herself, by remembering\nthat Mrs. Kirkpatrick had promised faithfully to awaken her in time;\nbut all the girl thought of was, how little they wanted her in this\ngrand house; how she must seem like a careless intruder who had no\nbusiness there. Once or twice she wondered where her father was, and\nwhether he was missing her; but the thought of the familiar happiness\nof home brought such a choking in her throat, that she felt she must\nnot give way to it, for fear of bursting out crying; and she had\ninstinct enough to feel that, as she was left at the Towers, the less\ntrouble she gave, the more she kept herself out of observation, the\nbetter.\n\nShe followed the ladies out of the dining-room, almost hoping that\nno one would see her. But that was impossible, and she immediately\nbecame the subject of conversation between the awful Lady Cumnor and\nher kind neighbour at dinner.\n\n\"Do you know, I thought this young lady was French when I first saw\nher? she has got the black hair and eyelashes, and grey eyes, and\ncolourless complexion which one meets with in some parts of France,\nand I know Lady Cuxhaven was trying to find a well-educated girl who\nwould be a pleasant companion to her children.\"\n\n\"No!\" said Lady Cumnor, looking very stern, as Molly thought. \"She\nis the daughter of our medical man at Hollingford; she came with\nthe school visitors this morning, and she was overcome by the heat\nand fell asleep in Clare's room, and somehow managed to over-sleep\nherself, and did not waken up till all the carriages were gone. We\nwill send her home to-morrow morning, but for to-night she must stay\nhere, and Clare is kind enough to say she may sleep with her.\"\n\nThere was an implied blame running through this speech, that Molly\nfelt like needle-points all over her. Lady Cuxhaven came up at this\nmoment. Her tone was as deep, her manner of speaking as abrupt and\nauthoritative, as her mother's, but Molly felt the kinder nature\nunderneath.\n\n\"How are you now, my dear? You look better than you did under the\ncedar-tree. So you're to stop here to-night? Clare, don't you think\nwe could find some of those books of engravings that would interest\nMiss Gibson.\"\n\nMrs. Kirkpatrick came gliding up to the place where Molly stood; and\nbegan petting her with pretty words and actions, while Lady Cuxhaven\nturned over heavy volumes in search of one that might interest the\ngirl.\n\n\"Poor darling! I saw you come into the dining-room, looking so shy;\nand I wanted you to come near me, but I could not make a sign to you,\nbecause Lord Cuxhaven was speaking to me at the time, telling me\nabout his travels. Ah, here is a nice book--_Lodge's Portraits_; now\nI'll sit by you and tell you who they all are, and all about them.\nDon't trouble yourself any more, dear Lady Cuxhaven; I'll take charge\nof her; pray leave her to me!\"\n\nMolly grew hotter and hotter as these last words met her ear. If\nthey would only leave her alone, and not labour at being kind to\nher; would \"not trouble themselves\" about her! These words of Mrs.\nKirkpatrick's seemed to quench the gratitude she was feeling to Lady\nCuxhaven for looking for something to amuse her. But, of course, it\nwas a trouble, and she ought never to have been there.\n\nBy-and-by, Mrs. Kirkpatrick was called away to accompany Lady Agnes'\nsong; and then Molly really had a few minutes' enjoyment. She could\nlook round the room, unobserved, and, sure, never was any place out\nof a king's house so grand and magnificent. Large mirrors, velvet\ncurtains, pictures in their gilded frames, a multitude of dazzling\nlights decorated the vast saloon, and the floor was studded with\ngroups of ladies and gentlemen, all dressed in gorgeous attire.\nSuddenly Molly bethought her of the children whom she had accompanied\ninto the dining-room, and to whose ranks she had appeared to\nbelong,--where were they? Gone to bed an hour before, at some quiet\nsignal from their mother. Molly wondered if she might go, too--if\nshe could ever find her way back to the haven of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's\nbedroom. But she was at some distance from the door; a long way from\nMrs. Kirkpatrick, to whom she felt herself to belong more than to any\none else. Far, too, from Lady Cuxhaven, and the terrible Lady Cumnor,\nand her jocose and good-natured lord. So Molly sate on, turning over\npictures which she did not see; her heart growing heavier and heavier\nin the desolation of all this grandeur. Presently a footman entered\nthe room, and after a moment's looking about him, he went up to Mrs.\nKirkpatrick, where she sate at the piano, the centre of the musical\nportion of the company, ready to accompany any singer, and smiling\npleasantly as she willingly acceded to all requests. She came now\ntowards Molly, in her corner, and said to her,--\n\n\"Do you know, darling, your papa has come for you, and brought your\npony for you to ride home; so I shall lose my little bedfellow, for\nI suppose you must go?\"\n\nGo! was there a question of it in Molly's mind, as she stood up\nquivering, sparkling, almost crying out loud. She was brought to her\nsenses, though, by Mrs. Kirkpatrick's next words.\n\n\"You must go and wish Lady Cumnor good-night, you know, my dear, and\nthank her ladyship for her kindness to you. She is there, near that\nstatue, talking to Mr. Courtenay.\"\n\nYes! she was there--forty feet away--a hundred miles away! All that\nblank space had to be crossed; and then a speech to be made!\n\n\"Must I go?\" asked Molly, in the most pitiful and pleading voice\npossible.\n\n\"Yes; make haste about it; there is nothing so formidable in it, is\nthere?\" replied Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a sharper voice than before,\naware that they were wanting her at the piano, and anxious to get the\nbusiness in hand done as soon as possible.\n\nMolly stood still for a minute, then, looking up, she said, softly,--\n\n\"Would you mind coming with me, please?\"\n\n\"No! not I!\" said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, seeing that her compliance was\nlikely to be the most speedy way of getting through the affair; so\nshe took Molly's hand, and, on the way, in passing the group at the\npiano, she said, smiling, in her pretty genteel manner,--\n\n\"Our little friend here is shy and modest, and wants me to accompany\nher to Lady Cumnor to wish good-night; her father has come for her,\nand she is going away.\"\n\nMolly did not know how it was afterwards, but she pulled her hand out\nof Mrs. Kirkpatrick's on hearing these words, and going a step or\ntwo in advance came up to Lady Cumnor, grand in purple velvet, and\ndropping a curtsey, almost after the fashion of the school-children,\nshe said,--\n\n\"My lady, papa is come, and I am going away; and, my lady, I wish\nyou good-night, and thank you for your kindness. Your ladyship's\nkindness, I mean,\" she said, correcting herself as she remembered\nMiss Browning's particular instructions as to the etiquette to be\nobserved to earls and countesses, and their honourable progeny, as\nthey were given that morning on the road to the Towers.\n\nShe got out of the saloon somehow; she believed afterwards, on\nthinking about it, that she had never bidden good-by to Lady\nCuxhaven, or Mrs. Kirkpatrick, or \"all the rest of them,\" as she\nirreverently styled them in her thoughts.\n\nMr. Gibson was in the housekeeper's room, when Molly ran in, rather\nto the stately Mrs. Brown's discomfiture. She threw her arms round\nher father's neck. \"Oh, papa, papa, papa! I am so glad you have\ncome;\" and then she burst out crying, stroking his face almost\nhysterically as if to make sure he was there.\n\n\"Why, what a noodle you are, Molly! Did you think I was going to give\nup my little girl to live at the Towers all the rest of her life? You\nmake as much work about my coming for you, as if you thought I had.\nMake haste, now, and get on your bonnet. Mrs. Brown, may I ask you\nfor a shawl, or a plaid, or a wrap of some kind to pin about her for\na petticoat?\"\n\nHe did not mention that he had come home from a long round not half\nan hour before, a round from which he had returned dinnerless and\nhungry; but, on finding that Molly had not come back from the Towers,\nhe had ridden his tired horse round by Miss Brownings', and found\nthem in self-reproachful, helpless dismay. He would not wait to\nlisten to their tearful apologies; he galloped home, had a fresh\nhorse and Molly's pony saddled, and though Betty called after him\nwith a riding-skirt for the child, when he was not ten yards from his\nown stable-door, he refused to turn back for it, but went off, as\nDick the stableman said, \"muttering to himself awful.\"\n\nMrs. Brown had her bottle of wine out, and her plate of cake, before\nMolly came back from her long expedition to Mrs. Kirkpatrick's room,\n\"pretty nigh on to a quarter of a mile off,\" as the housekeeper\ninformed the impatient father, as he waited for his child to come\ndown arrayed in her morning's finery with the gloss of newness worn\noff. Mr. Gibson was a favourite in all the Towers' household, as\nfamily doctors generally are; bringing hopes of relief at times\nof anxiety and distress; and Mrs. Brown, who was subject to gout,\nespecially delighted in petting him whenever he would allow her. She\neven went out into the stable-yard to pin Molly up in the shawl, as\nshe sate upon the rough-coated pony, and hazarded the somewhat safe\nconjecture,--\n\n\"I daresay she'll be happier at home, Mr. Gibson,\" as they rode away.\n\nOnce out into the park Molly struck her pony, and urged him on as\nhard as he would go. Mr. Gibson called out at last:\n\n\"Molly! we're coming to the rabbit-holes; it's not safe to go at such\na pace. Stop.\" And as she drew rein he rode up alongside of her.\n\n\"We're getting into the shadow of the trees, and it's not safe riding\nfast here.\"\n\n\"Oh! papa, I never was so glad in all my life. I felt like a lighted\ncandle when they're putting the extinguisher on it.\"\n\n\"Did you? How d'ye know what the candle feels?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, but I did.\" And again, after a pause she\nsaid,--\"Oh, I am so glad to be here! It is so pleasant riding here in\nthe open, free, fresh air, crushing out such a good smell from the\ndewy grass. Papa! are you there? I can't see you.\"\n\nHe rode close up alongside of her: he was not sure but what she might\nbe afraid of riding in the dark shadows, so he laid his hand upon\nhers.\n\n\"Oh! I am so glad to feel you,\" squeezing his hand hard. \"Papa, I\nshould like to get a chain like Ponto's, just as long as your longest\nround, and then I could fasten us two to each end of it, and when I\nwanted you I could pull, and if you didn't want to come, you could\npull back again; but I should know you knew I wanted you, and we\ncould never lose each other.\"\n\n\"I'm rather lost in that plan of yours; the details, as you state\nthem, are a little puzzling; but if I make them out rightly, I am to\ngo about the country, like the donkeys on the common, with a clog\nfastened to my hind leg.\"\n\n\"I don't mind your calling me a clog, if only we were fastened\ntogether.\"\n\n\"But I do mind you calling me a donkey,\" he replied.\n\n\"I never did. At least I didn't mean to. But it is such a comfort to\nknow that I may be as rude as I like.\"\n\n\"Is that what you've learnt from the grand company you've been\nkeeping to-day? I expected to find you so polite and ceremonious,\nthat I read a few chapters of _Sir Charles Grandison_, in order to\nbring myself up to concert pitch.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do hope I shall never be a lord or a lady.\"\n\n\"Well, to comfort you, I'll tell you this: I'm sure you'll never be a\nlord; and I think the chances are a thousand to one against your ever\nbeing the other, in the sense in which you mean.\"\n\n\"I should lose myself every time I had to fetch my bonnet, or else\nget tired of long passages and great staircases long before I could\ngo out walking.\"\n\n\"But you'd have your lady's-maid, you know.\"\n\n\"Do you know, papa, I think lady's-maids are worse than ladies. I\nshould not mind being a housekeeper so much.\"\n\n\"No! the jam-cupboards and dessert would lie very conveniently to\none's hand,\" replied her father, meditatively. \"But Mrs. Brown tells\nme that the thought of the dinners often keeps her from sleeping;\nthere's that anxiety to be taken into consideration. Still, in every\ncondition of life, there are heavy cares and responsibilities.\"\n\n\"Well! I suppose so,\" said Molly, gravely. \"I know Betty says I wear\nher life out with the green stains I get in my frocks from sitting in\nthe cherry-tree.\"\n\n\"And Miss Browning said she had fretted herself into a headache with\nthinking how they had left you behind. I'm afraid you'll be as bad as\na bill of fare to them to-night. How did it all happen, goosey?\"\n\n\"Oh, I went by myself to see the gardens; they are so beautiful! and\nI lost myself, and sat down to rest under a great tree; and Lady\nCuxhaven and that Mrs. Kirkpatrick came; and Mrs. Kirkpatrick brought\nme some lunch, and then put me to sleep on her bed,--and I thought\nshe would waken me in time, and she didn't; and so they'd all gone\naway; and when they planned for me to stop till to-morrow, I didn't\nlike saying how very, very much I wanted to go home,--but I kept\nthinking how you would wonder where I was.\"\n\n\"Then it was rather a dismal day of pleasure, goosey, eh?\"\n\n\"Not in the morning. I shall never forget the morning in that garden.\nBut I was never so unhappy in all my life, as I have been all this\nlong afternoon.\"\n\nMr. Gibson thought it his duty to ride round by the Towers, and pay\na visit of apology and thanks to the family, before they left for\nLondon. He found them all on the wing, and no one was sufficiently\nat liberty to listen to his grateful civilities but Mrs. Kirkpatrick,\nwho, although she was to accompany Lady Cuxhaven, and pay a visit\nto her former pupil, made leisure enough to receive Mr. Gibson, on\nbehalf of the family; and assured him of her faithful remembrance of\nhis great professional attention to her in former days in the most\nwinning manner.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nMOLLY GIBSON'S CHILDHOOD.\n\n\nSixteen years before this time, all Hollingford had been disturbed\nto its foundations by the intelligence that Mr. Hall, the skilful\ndoctor, who had attended them all their days, was going to take\na partner. It was no use reasoning to them on the subject; so Mr.\nBrowning the vicar, Mr. Sheepshanks (Lord Cumnor's agent), and Mr.\nHall himself, the masculine reasoners of the little society, left\noff the attempt, feeling that the _Che sarà sarà_ would prove more\nsilencing to the murmurs than many arguments. Mr. Hall had told his\nfaithful patients that, even with the strongest spectacles, his\nsight was not to be depended upon; and they might have found out for\nthemselves that his hearing was very defective, although, on this\npoint, he obstinately adhered to his own opinion, and was frequently\nheard to regret the carelessness of people's communication nowadays,\n\"like writing on blotting-paper, all the words running into each\nother,\" he would say. And more than once Mr. Hall had had attacks\nof a suspicious nature,--\"rheumatism\" he used to call them, but he\nprescribed for himself as if they had been gout--which had prevented\nhis immediate attention to imperative summonses. But, blind and deaf,\nand rheumatic as he might be, he was still Mr. Hall the doctor who\ncould heal all their ailments--unless they died meanwhile--and he had\nno right to speak of growing old, and taking a partner.\n\nHe went very steadily to work all the same; advertising in medical\njournals, reading testimonials, sifting character and qualifications;\nand just when the elderly maiden ladies of Hollingford thought that\nthey had convinced their contemporary that he was as young as ever,\nhe startled them by bringing his new partner, Mr. Gibson, to call\nupon them, and began \"slyly,\" as these ladies said, to introduce him\ninto practice. And \"who was this Mr. Gibson?\" they asked, and echo\nmight answer the question, if she liked, for no one else did. No\none ever in all his life knew anything more of his antecedents than\nthe Hollingford people might have found out the first day they saw\nhim: that he was tall, grave, rather handsome than otherwise; thin\nenough to be called \"a very genteel figure,\" in those days, before\nmuscular Christianity had come into vogue; speaking with a slight\nScotch accent; and, as one good lady observed, \"so very trite in\nhis conversation,\" by which she meant sarcastic. As to his birth,\nparentage, and education,--the favourite conjecture of Hollingford\nsociety was, that he was the illegitimate son of a Scotch duke, by\na Frenchwoman; and the grounds for this conjecture were these:--He\nspoke with a Scotch accent; therefore, he must be Scotch. He had\na very genteel appearance, an elegant figure, and was apt--so his\nill-wishers said--to give himself airs; therefore, his father must\nhave been some person of quality; and, that granted, nothing was\neasier than to run this supposition up all the notes of the scale of\nthe peerage,--baronet, baron, viscount, earl, marquis, duke. Higher\nthey dared not go, though one old lady, acquainted with English\nhistory, hazarded the remark, that \"she believed that one or two\nof the Stuarts--hem--had not always been,--ahem--quite correct in\ntheir--conduct; and she fancied such--ahem--things ran in families.\"\nBut, in popular opinion, Mr. Gibson's father always remained a duke;\nnothing more.\n\nThen his mother must have been a Frenchwoman, because his hair was\nso black; and he was so sallow; and because he had been in Paris.\nAll this might be true, or might not; nobody ever knew, or found out\nanything more about him than what Mr. Hall told them, namely, that\nhis professional qualifications were as high as his moral character,\nand that both were far above the average, as Mr. Hall had taken pains\nto ascertain before introducing him to his patients. The popularity\nof this world is as transient as its glory, as Mr. Hall found out\nbefore the first year of his partnership was over. He had plenty of\nleisure left to him now to nurse his gout and cherish his eyesight.\nThe younger doctor had carried the day; nearly every one sent for\nMr. Gibson. Even at the great houses--even at the Towers, that\ngreatest of all, where Mr. Hall had introduced his new partner with\nfear and trembling, with untold anxiety as to his behaviour, and\nthe impression he might make on my lord the Earl, and my lady the\nCountess, Mr. Gibson was received at the end of a twelvemonth with as\nmuch welcome respect for his professional skill as Mr. Hall himself\nhad ever been. Nay--and this was a little too much for even the kind\nold doctor's good temper--Mr. Gibson had even been invited once to\ndinner at the Towers, to dine with the great Sir Astley, the head of\nthe profession! To be sure, Mr. Hall had been asked as well; but he\nwas laid up just then with his gout (since he had had a partner the\nrheumatism had been allowed to develope itself), and he had not been\nable to go. Poor Mr. Hall never quite got over this mortification;\nafter it he allowed himself to become dim of sight and hard of\nhearing, and kept pretty closely to the house during the two winters\nthat remained of his life. He sent for an orphan grand-niece to keep\nhim company in his old age; he, the woman-contemning old bachelor,\nbecame thankful for the cheerful presence of the pretty, bonny Mary\nPearson, who was good and sensible, and nothing more. She formed\na close friendship with the daughters of the vicar, Mr. Browning,\nand Mr. Gibson found time to become very intimate with all three.\nHollingford speculated much on which young lady would become Mrs.\nGibson, and was rather sorry when the talk about possibilities, and\nthe gossip about probabilities, with regard to the handsome young\nsurgeon's marriage, ended in the most natural manner in the world, by\nhis marrying his predecessor's niece. The two Miss Brownings showed\nno signs of going into a consumption on the occasion, although\ntheir looks and manners were carefully watched. On the contrary,\nthey were rather boisterously merry at the wedding, and poor Mrs.\nGibson it was that died of consumption, four or five years after her\nmarriage--three years after the death of her great-uncle, and when\nher only child, Molly, was just three years old.\n\nMr. Gibson did not speak much about the grief at the loss of his\nwife, which it was supposed that he felt. Indeed, he avoided all\ndemonstrations of sympathy, and got up hastily and left the room\nwhen Miss Phoebe Browning first saw him after his loss, and burst\ninto an uncontrollable flood of tears, which threatened to end in\nhysterics. Miss Browning declared she never could forgive him for his\nhard-heartedness on that occasion; but a fortnight afterwards she\ncame to very high words with old Mrs. Goodenough, for gasping out her\ndoubts whether Mr. Gibson was a man of deep feeling; judging by the\nnarrowness of his crape hat-band, which ought to have covered his\nhat, whereas there was at least three inches of beaver to be seen.\nAnd, in spite of it all, Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe considered\nthemselves as Mr. Gibson's most intimate friends, in right of their\nregard for his dead wife, and would fain have taken a quasi-motherly\ninterest in his little girl, had she not been guarded by a watchful\ndragon in the shape of Betty, her nurse, who was jealous of any\ninterference between her and her charge; and especially resentful and\ndisagreeable towards all those ladies who, by suitable age, rank, or\npropinquity, she thought capable of \"casting sheep's eyes at master.\"\n\nSeveral years before the opening of this story, Mr. Gibson's position\nseemed settled for life, both socially and professionally. He was\na widower, and likely to remain so; his domestic affections were\ncentred on little Molly, but even to her, in their most private\nmoments, he did not give way to much expression of his feelings;\nhis most caressing appellation for her was \"Goosey,\" and he took a\npleasure in bewildering her infant mind with his badinage. He had\nrather a contempt for demonstrative people, arising from his medical\ninsight into the consequences to health of uncontrolled feeling. He\ndeceived himself into believing that still his reason was lord of\nall, because he had never fallen into the habit of expression on any\nother than purely intellectual subjects. Molly, however, had her own\nintuitions to guide her. Though her papa laughed at her, quizzed her,\njoked at her, in a way which the Miss Brownings called \"really cruel\"\nto each other when they were quite alone, Molly took her little\ngriefs and pleasures, and poured them into her papa's ears, sooner\neven than into Betty's, that kind-hearted termagant. The child grew\nto understand her father well, and the two had the most delightful\nintercourse together--half banter, half seriousness, but altogether\nconfidential friendship. Mr. Gibson kept three servants; Betty, a\ncook, and a girl who was supposed to be housemaid, but who was under\nboth the elder two, and had a pretty life of it in consequence.\nThree servants would not have been required if it had not been Mr.\nGibson's habit, as it had been Mr. Hall's before him, to take two\n\"pupils\" as they were called in the genteel language of Hollingford,\n\"apprentices\" as they were in fact--being bound by indentures, and\npaying a handsome premium to learn their business. They lived in the\nhouse, and occupied an uncomfortable, ambiguous, or, as Miss Browning\ncalled it with some truth, \"amphibious\" position. They had their\nmeals with Mr. Gibson and Molly, and were felt to be terribly in the\nway; Mr. Gibson not being a man who could make conversation, and\nhating the duty of talking under restraint. Yet something within him\nmade him wince, as if his duties were not rightly performed, when,\nas the cloth was drawn, the two awkward lads rose up with joyful\nalacrity, gave him a nod, which was to be interpreted as a bow,\nknocked against each other in their endeavours to get out of the\ndining-room quickly; and then might be heard dashing along a passage\nwhich led to the surgery, choking with half-suppressed laughter. Yet\nthe annoyance he felt at this dull sense of imperfectly fulfilled\nduties only made his sarcasms on their inefficiency, or stupidity, or\nill manners, more bitter than before.\n\nBeyond direct professional instruction, he did not know what to do\nwith the succession of pairs of young men, whose mission seemed to\nbe, to be plagued by their master consciously, and to plague him\nunconsciously. Once or twice Mr. Gibson had declined taking a fresh\npupil, in the hopes of shaking himself free from the incubus, but his\nreputation as a clever surgeon had spread so rapidly that his fees\nwhich he had thought prohibitory, were willingly paid, in order that\nthe young man might make a start in life, with the prestige of having\nbeen a pupil of Gibson of Hollingford. But as Molly grew to be a\nlittle girl instead of a child, when she was about eight years old,\nher father perceived the awkwardness of her having her breakfasts\nand dinners so often alone with the pupils, without his uncertain\npresence. To do away with this evil, more than for the actual\ninstruction she could give, he engaged a respectable woman, the\ndaughter of a shopkeeper in the town, who had left a destitute\nfamily, to come every morning before breakfast, and to stay with\nMolly till he came home at night; or, if he was detained, until the\nchild's bed-time.\n\n\"Now, Miss Eyre,\" said he, summing up his instructions the day before\nshe entered upon her office, \"remember this: you are to make good tea\nfor the young men, and see that they have their meals comfortably,\nand--you are five-and-thirty, I think you said?--try and make them\ntalk,--rationally, I am afraid is beyond your or anybody's power; but\nmake them talk without stammering or giggling. Don't teach Molly too\nmuch: she must sew, and read, and write, and do her sums; but I want\nto keep her a child, and if I find more learning desirable for her,\nI'll see about giving it to her myself. After all, I'm not sure that\nreading or writing is necessary. Many a good woman gets married\nwith only a cross instead of her name; it's rather a diluting\nof mother-wit, to my fancy; but, however, we must yield to the\nprejudices of society, Miss Eyre, and so you may teach the child to\nread.\"\n\nMiss Eyre listened in silence, perplexed but determined to be\nobedient to the directions of the doctor, whose kindness she and\nher family had good cause to know. She made strong tea; she helped\nthe young men liberally in Mr. Gibson's absence, as well as in his\npresence, and she found the way to unloosen their tongues, whenever\ntheir master was away, by talking to them on trivial subjects in her\npleasant homely way. She taught Molly to read and write, but tried\nhonestly to keep her back in every other branch of education. It was\nonly by fighting and struggling hard, that bit by bit Molly persuaded\nher father to let her have French and drawing lessons. He was always\nafraid of her becoming too much educated, though he need not have\nbeen alarmed; the masters who visited such small country towns as\nHollingford forty years ago, were no such great proficients in their\narts. Once a week she joined a dancing class in the assembly-room\nat the principal inn in the town: the \"George;\" and, being daunted\nby her father in every intellectual attempt, she read every book\nthat came in her way, almost with as much delight as if it had been\nforbidden. For his station in life, Mr. Gibson had an unusually\ngood library; the medical portion of it was inaccessible to Molly,\nbeing kept in the surgery, but every other book she had either read,\nor tried to read. Her summer place of study was that seat in the\ncherry-tree, where she got the green stains on her frock, that have\nalready been mentioned as likely to wear Betty's life out. In spite\nof this \"hidden worm i' th' bud,\" Betty was to all appearance strong,\nalert, and flourishing. She was the one crook in Miss Eyre's lot,\nwho was otherwise so happy in having met with a suitable well-paid\nemployment just when she needed it most. But Betty, though agreeing\nin theory with her master when he told her of the necessity of having\na governess for his little daughter, was vehemently opposed to any\ndivision of her authority and influence over the child who had been\nher charge, her plague, and her delight ever since Mrs. Gibson's\ndeath. She took up her position as censor of all Miss Eyre's sayings\nand doings from the very first, and did not for a moment condescend\nto conceal her disapprobation. In her heart she could not help\nrespecting the patience and painstaking of the good lady,--for\na \"lady\" Miss Eyre was in the best sense of the word, though in\nHollingford she only took rank as a shopkeeper's daughter. Yet Betty\nbuzzed about her with the teasing pertinacity of a gnat, always ready\nto find fault, if not to bite. Miss Eyre's only defence came from the\nquarter whence it might least have been expected--from her pupil; on\nwhose fancied behalf, as an oppressed little personage, Betty always\nbased her attacks. But very early in the day Molly perceived their\ninjustice, and soon afterwards she began to respect Miss Eyre for her\nsilent endurance of what evidently gave her far more pain than Betty\nimagined. Mr. Gibson had been a friend in need to her family, so Miss\nEyre restrained her complaints, sooner than annoy him. And she had\nher reward. Betty would offer Molly all sorts of small temptations to\nneglect Miss Eyre's wishes; Molly steadily resisted, and plodded away\nat her task of sewing or her difficult sum. Betty made cumbrous jokes\nat Miss Eyre's expense; Molly looked up with the utmost gravity, as\nif requesting the explanation of an unintelligible speech; and there\nis nothing so quenching to a wag as to be asked to translate his\njest into plain matter-of-fact English, and to show wherein the\npoint lies. Occasionally Betty lost her temper entirely, and spoke\nimpertinently to Miss Eyre; but when this had been done in Molly's\npresence, the girl flew out into such a violent passion of words\nin defence of her silent trembling governess, that even Betty\nherself was daunted, though she chose to take the child's anger as\na good joke, and tried to persuade Miss Eyre herself to join in her\namusement.\n\n\"Bless the child! one 'ud think I was a hungry pussy-cat, and she\na hen-sparrow, with her wings all fluttering, and her little eyes\naflame, and her beak ready to peck me just because I happened to\nlook near her nest. Nay, child! if thou lik'st to be stifled in a\nnasty close room, learning things as is of no earthly good when they\nis learnt, instead o' riding on Job Donkin's hay-cart, it's thy\nlook-out, not mine. She's a little vixen, isn't she?\" smiling at\nMiss Eyre, as she finished her speech. But the poor governess saw no\nhumour in the affair; the comparison of Molly to a hen-sparrow was\nlost upon her. She was sensitive and conscientious, and knew, from\nhome experience, the evils of an ungovernable temper. So she began to\nreprove Molly for giving way to her passion, and the child thought\nit hard to be blamed for what she considered her just anger against\nBetty. But, after all, these were the small grievances of a very\nhappy childhood.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nMR. GIBSON'S NEIGHBOURS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nMolly grew up among these quiet people in calm monotony of life,\nwithout any greater event than that which has been recorded--the\nbeing left behind at the Towers--until she was nearly seventeen. She\nhad become a visitor at the school, but she had never gone again to\nthe annual festival at the great house; it was easy to find some\nexcuse for keeping away, and the recollection of that day was not\na pleasant one on the whole, though she often thought how much she\nshould like to see the gardens again.\n\nLady Agnes was married; there was only Lady Harriet remaining at\nhome; Lord Hollingford, the eldest son, had lost his wife, and was\na good deal more at the Towers since he had become a widower. He\nwas a tall ungainly man, considered to be as proud as his mother,\nthe countess; but, in fact, he was only shy, and slow at making\ncommonplace speeches. He did not know what to say to people whose\ndaily habits and interests were not the same as his; he would have\nbeen very thankful for a handbook of small-talk, and would have\nlearnt off his sentences with good-humoured diligence. He often\nenvied the fluency of his garrulous father, who delighted in talking\nto everybody, and was perfectly unconscious of the incoherence of his\nconversation. But, owing to his constitutional reserve and shyness,\nLord Hollingford was not a popular man although his kindness of\nheart was very great, his simplicity of character extreme, and his\nscientific acquirements considerable enough to entitle him to much\nreputation in the European republic of learned men. In this respect\nHollingford was proud of him. The inhabitants knew that the great,\ngrave, clumsy heir to its fealty was highly esteemed for his wisdom;\nand that he had made one or two discoveries, though in what direction\nthey were not quite sure. But it was safe to point him out to\nstrangers visiting the little town, as \"That's Lord Hollingford--the\nfamous Lord Hollingford, you know; you must have heard of him, he is\nso scientific.\" If the strangers knew his name, they also knew his\nclaims to fame; if they did not, ten to one but they would make as\nif they did, and so conceal not only their own ignorance, but that\nof their companions, as to the exact nature of the sources of his\nreputation.\n\nHe was left a widower with two or three boys. They were at a public\nschool; so that their companionship could make the house in which\nhe had passed his married life but little of a home to him, and he\nconsequently spent much of his time at the Towers; where his mother\nwas proud of him, and his father very fond, but ever so little afraid\nof him. His friends were always welcomed by Lord and Lady Cumnor; the\nformer, indeed, was in the habit of welcoming everybody everywhere;\nbut it was a proof of Lady Cumnor's real affection for her\ndistinguished son, that she allowed him to ask what she called \"all\nsorts of people\" to the Towers. \"All sorts of people\" meant really\nthose who were distinguished for science and learning, without regard\nto rank: and it must be confessed, without much regard to polished\nmanners likewise.\n\nMr. Hall, Mr. Gibson's predecessor, had always been received with\nfriendly condescension by my lady, who had found him established as\nthe family medical man, when first she came to the Towers on her\nmarriage; but she never thought of interfering with his custom of\ntaking his meals, if he needed refreshment, in the housekeeper's\nroom, not _with_ the housekeeper, _bien entendu_. The comfortable,\nclever, stout, and red-faced doctor would very much have preferred\nthis, even if he had had the choice given him (which he never had) of\ntaking his \"snack,\" as he called it, with my lord and my lady, in the\ngrand dining-room. Of course, if some great surgical gun (like Sir\nAstley) was brought down from London to bear on the family's health,\nit was due to him, as well as to the local medical attendant, to ask\nMr. Hall to dinner, in a formal and ceremonious manner, on which\noccasions Mr. Hall buried his chin in voluminous folds of white\nmuslin, put on his black knee-breeches, with bunches of ribbon at\nthe sides, his silk stockings and buckled shoes, and otherwise made\nhimself excessively uncomfortable in his attire, and went forth in\nstate in a post-chaise from the \"George,\" consoling himself in the\nprivate corner of his heart for the discomfort he was enduring with\nthe idea of how well it would sound the next day in the ears of the\nsquires whom he was in the habit of attending: \"Yesterday at dinner\nthe earl said,\" or \"the countess remarked,\" or \"I was surprised to\nhear when I was dining at the Towers yesterday.\" But somehow things\nhad changed since Mr. Gibson had become \"the doctor\" _par excellence_\nat Hollingford. Miss Brownings thought that it was because he had\nsuch an elegant figure, and \"such a distinguished manner;\" Mrs.\nGoodenough, \"because of his aristocratic connections\"--\"the son of a\nScotch duke, my dear, never mind on which side of the blanket.\" But\nthe fact was certain; although he might frequently ask Mrs. Brown\nto give him something to eat in the housekeeper's room--he had no\ntime for all the fuss and ceremony of luncheon with my lady--he was\nalways welcome to the grandest circle of visitors in the house. He\nmight lunch with a duke any day that he chose; given that a duke was\nforthcoming at the Towers. His accent was Scotch, not provincial. He\nhad not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his bones; and leanness goes\na great way to gentility. His complexion was sallow, and his hair\nblack; in those days, the decade after the conclusion of the great\ncontinental war, to be sallow and black-a-vised was of itself a\ndistinction; he was not jovial (as my lord remarked with a sigh, but\nit was my lady who endorsed the invitations), sparing of his words,\nintelligent, and slightly sarcastic. Therefore he was perfectly\npresentable.\n\nHis Scotch blood (for that he was of Scottish descent there could be\nno manner of doubt) gave him just the kind of thistly dignity which\nmade every one feel that they must treat him with respect; so on that\nhead he was assured. The grandeur of being an invited guest to dinner\nat the Towers from time to time, gave him but little pleasure for\nmany years, but it was a form to be gone through in the way of his\nprofession, without any idea of social gratification.\n\nBut when Lord Hollingford returned to make the Towers his home,\naffairs were altered. Mr. Gibson really heard and learnt things that\ninterested him seriously, and that gave fresh flavour to his reading.\nFrom time to time he met the leaders of the scientific world;\nodd-looking, simple-hearted men, very much in earnest about their\nown particular subjects, and not having much to say on any other. Mr.\nGibson found himself capable of appreciating such persons, and also\nperceived that they valued his appreciation, as it was honestly\nand intelligently given. Indeed, by-and-by, he began to send\ncontributions of his own to the more scientific of the medical\njournals, and thus partly in receiving, partly in giving out\ninformation and accurate thought, a new zest was added to his life.\nThere was not much intercourse between Lord Hollingford and himself;\nthe one was too silent and shy, the other too busy, to seek each\nother's society with the perseverance required to do away with the\nsocial distinction of rank that prevented their frequent meetings.\nBut each was thoroughly pleased to come into contact with the other.\nEach could rely on the other's respect and sympathy with a security\nunknown to many who call themselves friends; and this was a source\nof happiness to both; to Mr. Gibson the most so, of course; for\nhis range of intelligent and cultivated society was the smaller.\nIndeed, there was no one equal to himself among the men with whom he\nassociated, and this he had felt as a depressing influence, although\nhe never recognized the cause of his depression. There was Mr.\nAshton, the vicar, who had succeeded Mr. Browning, a thoroughly good\nand kind-hearted man, but one without an original thought in him;\nwhose habitual courtesy and indolent mind led him to agree to every\nopinion, not palpably heterodox, and to utter platitudes in the most\ngentlemanly manner. Mr. Gibson had once or twice amused himself, by\nleading the vicar on in his agreeable admissions of arguments \"as\nperfectly convincing,\" and of statements as \"curious but undoubted,\"\ntill he had planted the poor clergyman in a bog of heretical\nbewilderment. But then Mr. Ashton's pain and suffering at suddenly\nfinding out into what a theological predicament he had been brought,\nhis real self-reproach at his previous admissions, were so great\nthat Mr. Gibson lost all sense of fun, and hastened back to the\nThirty-nine Articles with all the good-will in life, as the only\nmeans of soothing the vicar's conscience. On any other subject,\nexcept that of orthodoxy, Mr. Gibson could lead him any lengths; but\nthen his ignorance on most of them prevented bland acquiescence from\narriving at any results which could startle him. He had some private\nfortune, and was not married, and lived the life of an indolent and\nrefined bachelor; but though he himself was no very active visitor\namong his poorer parishioners, he was always willing to relieve their\nwants in the most liberal, and, considering his habits, occasionally\nin the most self-denying manner, whenever Mr. Gibson, or any one\nelse, made them clearly known to him. \"Use my purse as freely as if\nit was your own, Gibson,\" he was wont to say. \"I'm such a bad one at\ngoing about and making talk to poor folk--I daresay I don't do enough\nin that way--but I am most willing to give you anything for any one\nyou may consider in want.\"\n\n\"Thank you; I come upon you pretty often, I believe, and make very\nlittle scruple about it; but if you'll allow me to suggest, it is,\nthat you shouldn't try to make talk when you go into the cottages;\nbut just talk.\"\n\n\"I don't see the difference,\" said the vicar, a little querulously;\n\"but I daresay there is a difference, and I have no doubt what you\nsay is quite true. I shouldn't make talk, but talk; and as both are\nequally difficult to me, you must let me purchase the privilege of\nsilence by this ten-pound note.\"\n\n\"Thank you. It's not so satisfactory to me; and, I should think, not\nto yourself. But probably the Joneses and Greens will prefer it.\"\n\nMr. Ashton would look with plaintive inquiry into Mr. Gibson's face\nafter some such speech, as if asking if a sarcasm was intended. On\nthe whole, they went on in the most amicable way; only beyond the\ngregarious feeling common to most men, they had very little actual\npleasure in each other's society. Perhaps the man of all others\nto whom Mr. Gibson took the most kindly--at least, until Lord\nHollingford came into the neighbourhood--was a certain Squire Hamley.\nHe and his ancestors had been called squire as long back as local\ntradition extended. But there was many a greater land-owner in the\ncounty, for Squire Hamley's estate was not more than eight hundred\nacres or so. But his family had been in possession of it long before\nthe Earls of Cumnor had been heard of; before the Hely-Harrisons\nhad bought Coldstone Park; no one in Hollingford knew the time when\nthe Hamleys had not lived at Hamley. \"Ever since the Heptarchy,\"\nsaid the vicar. \"Nay,\" said Miss Browning, \"I have heard that there\nwere Hamleys of Hamley before the Romans.\" The vicar was preparing\na polite assent, when Mrs. Goodenough came in with a still more\nstartling assertion. \"I have always heerd,\" said she, with all the\nslow authority of an oldest inhabitant, \"that there was Hamleys of\nHamley afore the time of the pagans.\" Mr. Ashton could only bow, and\nsay, \"Possibly, very possibly, madam.\" But he said it in so courteous\na manner that Mrs. Goodenough looked round in a gratified way, as\nmuch as to say, \"The Church confirms my words; who now will dare\ndispute them?\" At any rate, the Hamleys were a very old family, if\nnot aborigines. They had not increased their estate for centuries;\nthey had held their own, if even with an effort, and had not sold\na rood of it for the last hundred years or so. But they were not\nan adventurous race. They never traded, or speculated, or tried\nagricultural improvements of any kind. They had no capital in any\nbank; nor what perhaps would have been more in character, hoards of\ngold in any stocking. Their mode of life was simple, and more like\nthat of yeomen than squires. Indeed Squire Hamley, by continuing the\nprimitive manners and customs of his forefathers, the squires of the\neighteenth century, did live more as a yeoman, when such a class\nexisted, than as a squire of this generation. There was a dignity in\nthis quiet conservatism that gained him an immense amount of respect\nboth from high and low; and he might have visited at every house\nin the county had he so chosen. But he was very indifferent to the\ncharms of society; and perhaps this was owing to the fact that the\nsquire, Roger Hamley, who at present lived and reigned at Hamley,\nhad not received so good an education as he ought to have done.\nHis father, Squire Stephen, had been plucked at Oxford, and, with\nstubborn pride, he had refused to go up again. Nay, more! he had\nsworn a great oath, as men did in those days, that none of his\nchildren to come should ever know either university by becoming a\nmember of it. He had only one child, the present Squire, and he was\nbrought up according to his father's word; he was sent to a petty\nprovincial school, where he saw much that he hated, and then turned\nloose upon the estate as its heir. Such a bringing up did not do him\nall the harm that might have been anticipated. He was imperfectly\neducated, and ignorant on many points; but he was aware of his\ndeficiency, and regretted it in theory. He was awkward and ungainly\nin society, and so kept out of it as much as possible; and he was\nobstinate, violent-tempered, and dictatorial in his own immediate\ncircle. On the other side, he was generous, and true as steel; the\nvery soul of honour, in fact. He had so much natural shrewdness, that\nhis conversation was always worth listening to, although he was apt\nto start by assuming entirely false premises, which he considered\nas incontrovertible as if they had been mathematically proved; but,\ngiven the correctness of his premises, nobody could bring more\nnatural wit and sense to bear upon the arguments based upon them.\n\nHe had married a delicate fine London lady; it was one of those\nperplexing marriages of which one cannot understand the reasons. Yet\nthey were very happy, though possibly Mrs. Hamley would not have sunk\ninto the condition of a chronic invalid, if her husband had cared a\nlittle more for her various tastes, or allowed her the companionship\nof those who did. After his marriage he was wont to say he had got\nall that was worth having out of the crowd of houses they called\nLondon. It was a compliment to his wife which he repeated until the\nyear of her death; it charmed her at first, it pleased her up to the\nlast time of her hearing it; but, for all that, she used sometimes\nto wish that he would recognize the fact that there might still be\nsomething worth hearing and seeing in the great city. But he never\nwent there again, and though he did not prohibit her going, yet he\nshowed so little sympathy with her when she came back full of what\nshe had done on her visit that she ceased caring to go. Not but what\nhe was kind and willing in giving his consent, and in furnishing her\namply with money. \"There, there, my little woman, take that! Dress\nyourself up as fine as any on 'em, and buy what you like, for the\ncredit of Hamley of Hamley; and go to the park and the play, and show\noff with the best on 'em. I shall be glad to see thee back again, I\nknow; but have thy fling while thou'rt about it.\" Then when she came\nback it was, \"Well, well, it has pleased thee, I suppose, so that's\nall right. But the very talking about it tires me, I know, and I\ncan't think how you have stood it all. Come out and see how pretty\nthe flowers are looking in the south garden. I've made them sow all\nthe seeds you like; and I went over to Hollingford nursery to buy the\ncuttings of the plants you admired last year. A breath of fresh air\nwill clear my brain after listening to all this talk about the whirl\nof London, which is like to have turned me giddy.\"\n\nMrs. Hamley was a great reader, and had considerable literary taste.\nShe was gentle and sentimental; tender and good. She gave up her\nvisits to London; she gave up her sociable pleasure in the company\nof her fellows in education and position. Her husband, owing to the\ndeficiencies of his early years, disliked associating with those\nto whom he ought to have been an equal; he was too proud to mingle\nwith his inferiors. He loved his wife all the more dearly for her\nsacrifices for him; but, deprived of all her strong interests, she\nsank into ill-health; nothing definite; only she never was well.\nPerhaps if she had had a daughter it would have been better for her:\nbut her two children were boys, and their father, anxious to give\nthem the advantages of which he himself had suffered the deprivation,\nsent the lads very early to a preparatory school. They were to go\non to Rugby and Cambridge; the idea of Oxford was hereditarily\ndistasteful in the Hamley family. Osborne, the eldest--so called\nafter his mother's maiden name--was full of taste, and had some\ntalent. His appearance had all the grace and refinement of his\nmother's. He was sweet-tempered and affectionate, almost as\ndemonstrative as a girl. He did well at school, carrying away many\nprizes; and was, in a word, the pride and delight of both father and\nmother; the confidential friend of the latter, in default of any\nother. Roger was two years younger than Osborne; clumsy and heavily\nbuilt, like his father; his face was square, and the expression\ngrave, and rather immobile. He was good, but dull, his schoolmasters\nsaid. He won no prizes, but brought home a favourable report of his\nconduct. When he caressed his mother, she used laughingly to allude\nto the fable of the lap-dog and the donkey; so thereafter he left\noff all personal demonstration of affection. It was a great question\nas to whether he was to follow his brother to college after he\nleft Rugby. Mrs. Hamley thought it would be rather a throwing\naway of money, as he was so little likely to distinguish himself\nin intellectual pursuits; anything practical--such as a civil\nengineer--would be more the kind of life for him. She thought that\nit would be too mortifying for him to go to the same college and\nuniversity as his brother, who was sure to distinguish himself--and,\nto be repeatedly plucked, to come away wooden-spoon at last. But his\nfather persevered doggedly, as was his wont, in his intention of\ngiving both his sons the same education; they should both have the\nadvantages of which he had been deprived. If Roger did not do well at\nCambridge it would be his own fault. If his father did not send him\nthither, some day or other he might be regretting the omission, as\nthe Squire had done himself for many a year. So Roger followed his\nbrother Osborne to Trinity, and Mrs. Hamley was again left alone,\nafter the year of indecision as to Roger's destination, which had\nbeen brought on by her urgency. She had not been able for many years\nto walk beyond her garden; the greater part of her life was spent on\na sofa, wheeled to the window in summer, to the fireside in winter.\nThe room which she inhabited was large and pleasant; four tall\nwindows looked out upon a lawn dotted over with flower-beds, and\nmelting away into a small wood, in the centre of which there was a\npond, filled with water-lilies. About this unseen pond in the deep\nshade Mrs. Hamley had written many a pretty four-versed poem since\nshe lay on her sofa, alternately reading and composing verse. She had\na small table by her side on which there were the newest works of\npoetry and fiction; a pencil and blotting-book, with loose sheets\nof blank paper; a vase of flowers always of her husband's gathering;\nwinter and summer, she had a sweet fresh nosegay every day. Her maid\nbrought her a draught of medicine every three hours, with a glass of\nclear water and a biscuit; her husband came to her as often as his\nlove for the open air and his labours out-of-doors permitted; but\nthe event of her day, when her boys were absent, was Mr. Gibson's\nfrequent professional visits.\n\nHe knew there was real secret harm going on all this time that people\nspoke of her as a merely fanciful invalid; and that one or two\naccused him of humouring her fancies. But he only smiled at such\naccusations. He felt that his visits were a real pleasure and\nlightening of her growing and indescribable discomfort; he knew that\nSquire Hamley would have been only too glad if he had come every day;\nand he was conscious that by careful watching of her symptoms he\nmight mitigate her bodily pain. Besides all these reasons, he took\ngreat pleasure in the Squire's society. Mr. Gibson enjoyed the\nother's unreasonableness; his quaintness; his strong conservatism\nin religion, politics, and morals. Mrs. Hamley tried sometimes to\napologize for, or to soften away, opinions which she fancied were\noffensive to the doctor, or contradictions which she thought too\nabrupt; but at such times her husband would lay his great hand almost\ncaressingly on Mr. Gibson's shoulder, and soothe his wife's anxiety,\nby saying, \"Let us alone, little woman. We understand each other,\ndon't we, doctor? Why, bless your life, he gives me better than he\ngets many a time; only, you see, he sugars it over, and says a sharp\nthing, and pretends it's all civility and humility; but I can tell\nwhen he's giving me a pill.\"\n\nOne of Mrs. Hamley's often-expressed wishes had been, that Molly\nmight come and pay her a visit. Mr. Gibson always refused this\nrequest of hers, though he could hardly have given his reasons for\nthese refusals. He did not want to lose the companionship of his\nchild, in fact; but he put it to himself in quite a different way.\nHe thought her lessons and her regular course of employment would be\ninterrupted. The life in Mrs. Hamley's heated and scented room would\nnot be good for the girl; Osborne and Roger Hamley would be at home,\nand he did not wish Molly to be thrown too exclusively upon them for\nyoung society; or they would not be at home, and it would be rather\ndull and depressing for his girl to be all the day long with a\nnervous invalid.\n\nBut at length the day came when Mr. Gibson rode over, and volunteered\na visit from Molly; an offer which Mrs. Hamley received with the\n\"open arms of her heart,\" as she expressed it; and of which the\nduration was unspecified.\n\nThe cause for the change in Mr. Gibson's wishes just referred to\nwas as follows:--It has been mentioned that he took pupils, rather\nagainst his inclination, it is true; but there they were, a Mr. Wynne\nand Mr. Coxe, \"the young gentlemen,\" as they were called in the\nhousehold; \"Mr. Gibson's young gentlemen,\" as they were termed in the\ntown. Mr. Wynne was the elder, the more experienced one, who could\noccasionally take his master's place, and who gained experience by\nvisiting the poor, and the \"chronic cases.\" Mr. Gibson used to talk\nover his practice with Mr. Wynne, and try and elicit his opinions in\nthe vain hope that, some day or another, Mr. Wynne might start an\noriginal thought. The young man was cautious and slow; he would never\ndo any harm by his rashness, but at the same time he would always be\na little behind his day. Still Mr. Gibson remembered that he had had\nfar worse \"young gentlemen\" to deal with; and was content with, if\nnot thankful for, such an elder pupil as Mr. Wynne. Mr. Coxe was a\nboy of nineteen or so, with brilliant red hair, and a tolerably red\nface, of both of which he was very conscious and much ashamed. He was\nthe son of an Indian officer, an old acquaintance of Mr. Gibson's.\nMajor Coxe was at some unpronounceable station in the Punjaub, at the\npresent time; but the year before he had been in England, and had\nrepeatedly expressed his great satisfaction at having placed his only\nchild as a pupil to his old friend, and had in fact almost charged\nMr. Gibson with the guardianship as well as the instruction of his\nboy, giving him many injunctions which he thought were special in\nthis case; but which Mr. Gibson with a touch of annoyance assured the\nmajor were always attended to in every case, with every pupil. But\nwhen the poor major ventured to beg that his boy might be considered\nas one of the family, and that he might spend his evenings in the\ndrawing-room instead of the surgery, Mr. Gibson turned upon him with\na direct refusal.\n\n\"He must live like the others. I can't have the pestle and mortar\ncarried into the drawing-room, and the place smelling of aloes.\"\n\n\"Must my boy make pills himself, then?\" asked the major, ruefully.\n\n\"To be sure. The youngest apprentice always does. It's not hard\nwork. He'll have the comfort of thinking he won't have to swallow\nthem himself. And he'll have the run of the pomfret cakes, and the\nconserve of hips, and on Sundays he shall have a taste of tamarinds\nto reward him for his weekly labour at pill-making.\"\n\nMajor Coxe was not quite sure whether Mr. Gibson was not laughing\nat him in his sleeve; but things were so far arranged, and the real\nadvantages were so great, that he thought it was best to take no\nnotice, but even to submit to the indignity of pill-making. He was\nconsoled for all these rubs by Mr. Gibson's manner at last when the\nsupreme moment of final parting arrived. The doctor did not say much;\nbut there was something of real sympathy in his manner that spoke\nstraight to the father's heart, and an implied \"you have trusted me\nwith your boy, and I have accepted the trust in full,\" in each of the\nfew last words.\n\nMr. Gibson knew his business and human nature too well to distinguish\nyoung Coxe by any overt marks of favouritism; but he could not help\nshowing the lad occasionally that he regarded him with especial\ninterest as the son of a friend. Besides this claim upon his regard,\nthere was something about the young man himself that pleased Mr.\nGibson. He was rash and impulsive, apt to speak, hitting the nail on\nthe head sometimes with unconscious cleverness, at other times making\ngross and startling blunders. Mr. Gibson used to tell him that his\nmotto would always be \"kill or cure,\" and to this Mr. Coxe once made\nanswer that he thought it was the best motto a doctor could have; for\nif he could not cure the patient, it was surely best to get him out\nof his misery quietly, and at once. Mr. Wynne looked up in surprise,\nand observed that he should be afraid that such putting out of misery\nmight be looked upon as homicide by some people. Mr. Gibson said\nin a dry tone, that for his part he should not mind the imputation\nof homicide, but that it would not do to make away with profitable\npatients in so speedy a manner; and that he thought that as long as\nthey were willing and able to pay two-and-sixpence for the doctor's\nvisit, it was his duty to keep them alive; of course, when they\nbecame paupers the case was different. Mr. Wynne pondered over this\nspeech; Mr. Coxe only laughed. At last Mr. Wynne said,--\n\n\"But you go every morning, sir, before breakfast to see old Nancy\nGrant, and you've ordered her this medicine, sir, which is about the\nmost costly in Corbyn's bill?\"\n\n\"Have you not found out how difficult it is for men to live up to\ntheir precepts? You've a great deal to learn yet, Mr. Wynne!\" said\nMr. Gibson, leaving the surgery as he spoke.\n\n\"I never can make the governor out,\" said Mr. Wynne, in a tone of\nutter despair. \"What are you laughing at, Coxey?\"\n\n\"Oh! I'm thinking how blest you are in having parents who have\ninstilled moral principles into your youthful bosom. You'd go and be\npoisoning all the paupers off, if you hadn't been told that murder\nwas a crime by your mother; you'd be thinking you were doing as you\nwere bid, and quote old Gibson's words when you came to be tried.\n'Please, my lord judge, they were not able to pay for my visits, and\nso I followed the rules of the profession as taught me by Mr. Gibson,\nthe great surgeon at Hollingford, and poisoned the paupers.'\"\n\n\"I can't bear that scoffing way of his.\"\n\n\"And I like it. If it wasn't for the governor's fun, and the\ntamarinds, and something else that I know of, I would run off to\nIndia. I hate stifling rooms, and sick people, and the smell of\ndrugs, and the stink of pills on my hands;--faugh!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nCALF-LOVE.\n\n\nOne day, for some reason or other, Mr. Gibson came home unexpectedly.\nHe was crossing the hall, having come in by the garden-door--the\ngarden communicated with the stable-yard, where he had left his\nhorse--when the kitchen door opened, and the girl who was underling\nin the establishment, came quickly into the hall with a note in her\nhand, and made as if she was taking it upstairs; but on seeing her\nmaster she gave a little start, and turned back as if to hide herself\nin the kitchen. If she had not made this movement, so conscious of\nguilt, Mr. Gibson, who was anything but suspicious, would never have\ntaken any notice of her. As it was, he stepped quickly forwards,\nopened the kitchen door, and called out \"Bethia\" so sharply that she\ncould not delay coming forwards.\n\n\"Give me that note,\" he said. She hesitated a little.\n\n\"It's for Miss Molly,\" she stammered out.\n\n\"Give it to me!\" he repeated more quickly than before. She looked as\nif she would cry; but still she kept the note tight held behind her\nback.\n\n\"He said as I was to give it into her own hands; and I promised as I\nwould, faithful.\"\n\n\"Cook, go and find Miss Molly. Tell her to come here at once.\"\n\nHe fixed Bethia with his eyes. It was of no use trying to escape: she\nmight have thrown it into the fire, but she had not presence of mind\nenough. She stood immovable, only her eyes looked any way rather than\nencounter her master's steady gaze. \"Molly, my dear!\"\n\n\"Papa! I did not know you were at home,\" said innocent, wondering\nMolly.\n\n\"Bethia, keep your word. Here is Miss Molly; give her the note.\"\n\n\"Indeed, miss, I couldn't help it!\"\n\nMolly took the note, but before she could open it, her father\nsaid,--\"That's all, my dear; you needn't read it. Give it to me. Tell\nthose who sent you, Bethia, that all letters for Miss Molly must pass\nthrough my hands. Now be off with you, goosey, and go back to where\nyou came from.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: A LOVE LETTER.]\n\n\n\"Papa, I shall make you tell me who my correspondent is.\"\n\n\"We'll see about that, by-and-by.\"\n\nShe went a little reluctantly, with ungratified curiosity, upstairs\nto Miss Eyre, who was still her daily companion, if not her\ngoverness. He turned into the empty dining-room, shut the door,\nbroke the seal of the note, and began to read it. It was a flaming\nlove-letter from Mr. Coxe; who professed himself unable to go on\nseeing her day after day without speaking to her of the passion she\nhad inspired--an \"eternal passion,\" he called it; on reading which\nMr. Gibson laughed a little. Would she not look kindly at him? would\nshe not think of him whose only thought was of her? and so on, with a\nvery proper admixture of violent compliments to her beauty. She was\nfair, not pale; her eyes were loadstars, her dimples marks of Cupid's\nfinger, &c.\n\nMr. Gibson finished reading it; and began to think about it in his\nown mind. \"Who would have thought the lad had been so poetical? but,\nto be sure, there's a 'Shakspeare' in the surgery library: I'll take\nit away and put 'Johnson's Dictionary' instead. One comfort is the\nconviction of her perfect innocence--ignorance, I should rather\nsay--for it's easy to see it's the first 'confession of his love,' as\nhe calls it. But it's an awful worry--to begin with lovers so early.\nWhy, she's only just seventeen,--not seventeen, indeed, till July;\nnot for six weeks yet. Sixteen and three-quarters! Why, she's quite\na baby. To be sure--poor Jeanie was not so old, and how I did love\nher!\" (Mrs. Gibson's name was Mary, so he must have been referring to\nsome one else.) Then his thoughts wandered back to other days, though\nhe still held the open note in his hand. By-and-by his eyes fell upon\nit again, and his mind came back to bear upon the present time. \"I'll\nnot be hard upon him. I'll give him a hint; he's quite sharp enough\nto take it. Poor laddie! if I send him away, which would be the\nwisest course, I do believe he's got no home to go to.\"\n\nAfter a little more consideration in the same strain, Mr. Gibson went\nand sat down at the writing-table and wrote the following formula:--\n\n   _Master Coxe._\n\n(\"That 'master' will touch him to the quick,\" said Mr. Gibson to\nhimself as he wrote the word.)\n\n\n   Rx. Verecundiæ i oz.\n       Fidelitatis Domesticæ i oz.\n       Reticentiæ gr. iij.\n   M.  Capiat hanc dosim ter die in aquâ purâ.\n\n   R. GIBSON, _Ch._\n\n\nMr. Gibson smiled a little sadly as he re-read his words. \"Poor\nJeanie,\" he said aloud. And then he chose out an envelope, enclosed\nthe fervid love-letter, and the above prescription; sealed it with\nhis own sharply-cut seal-ring, R. G., in old English letters, and\nthen paused over the address.\n\n\"He'll not like _Master Coxe_ outside; no need to put him to\nunnecessary shame.\" So the direction on the envelope was--\n\n   _Edward Coxe, Esq._\n\nThen Mr. Gibson applied himself to the professional business which\nhad brought him home so opportunely and unexpectedly, and afterwards\nhe went back through the garden to the stables; and just as he had\nmounted his horse, he said to the stable-man,--\"Oh! by the way,\nhere's a letter for Mr. Coxe. Don't send it through the women; take\nit round yourself to the surgery-door, and do it at once.\"\n\nThe slight smile upon his face, as he rode out of the gates, died\naway as soon as he found himself in the solitude of the lanes. He\nslackened his speed, and began to think. It was very awkward, he\nconsidered, to have a motherless girl growing up into womanhood in\nthe same house with two young men, even if she only met them at\nmeal-times; and all the intercourse they had with each other was\nmerely the utterance of such words as, \"May I help you to potatoes?\"\nor, as Mr. Wynne would persevere in saying, \"May I assist you to\npotatoes?\"--a form of speech which grated daily more and more upon\nMr. Gibson's ears. Yet Mr. Coxe, the offender in this affair which\nhad just occurred, had to remain for three years more as a pupil in\nMr. Gibson's family. He should be the very last of the race. Still\nthere were three years to be got over; and if this stupid passionate\ncalf-love of his lasted, what was to be done? Sooner or later Molly\nwould become aware of it. The contingencies of the affair were so\nexcessively disagreeable to contemplate, that Mr. Gibson determined\nto dismiss the subject from his mind by a good strong effort. He\nput his horse to a gallop, and found that the violent shaking over\nthe lanes--paved as they were with round stones, which had been\ndislocated by the wear and tear of a hundred years--was the very best\nthing for the spirits, if not for the bones. He made a long round\nthat afternoon, and came back to his home imagining that the worst\nwas over, and that Mr. Coxe would have taken the hint conveyed in\nthe prescription. All that would be needed was to find a safe place\nfor the unfortunate Bethia, who had displayed such a daring aptitude\nfor intrigue. But Mr. Gibson reckoned without his host. It was the\nhabit of the young men to come in to tea with the family in the\ndining-room, to swallow two cups, munch their bread or toast, and\nthen disappear. This night Mr. Gibson watched their countenances\nfurtively from under his long eye-lashes, while he tried against his\nwont to keep up a dégagé manner, and a brisk conversation on general\nsubjects. He saw that Mr. Wynne was on the point of breaking out\ninto laughter, and that red-haired, red-faced Mr. Coxe was redder\nand fiercer than ever, while his whole aspect and ways betrayed\nindignation and anger.\n\n\"He will have it, will he?\" thought Mr. Gibson to himself; and he\ngirded up his loins for the battle. He did not follow Molly and Miss\nEyre into the drawing-room as he usually did. He remained where he\nwas, pretending to read the newspaper, while Bethia, her face swelled\nup with crying, and with an aggrieved and offended aspect, removed\nthe tea-things. Not five minutes after the room was cleared, came\nthe expected tap at the door. \"May I speak to you, sir?\" said the\ninvisible Mr. Coxe, from outside.\n\n\"To be sure. Come in, Mr. Coxe. I was rather wanting to talk to you\nabout that bill of Corbyn's. Pray sit down.\"\n\n\"It is about nothing of that kind, sir, that I wanted--that I\nwished--No, thank you--I would rather not sit down.\" He, accordingly,\nstood in offended dignity. \"It is about that letter, sir--that letter\nwith the insulting prescription, sir.\"\n\n\"Insulting prescription! I am surprised at such a word being applied\nto any prescription of mine--though, to be sure, patients are\nsometimes offended at being told the nature of their illnesses; and,\nI daresay, they may take offence at the medicines which their cases\nrequire.\"\n\n\"I did not ask you to prescribe for me.\"\n\n\"Oh, ho! Then you were the Master Coxe who sent the note through\nBethia! Let me tell you it has cost her her place, and was a very\nsilly letter into the bargain.\"\n\n\"It was not the conduct of a gentleman, sir, to intercept it, and to\nopen it, and to read words never addressed to you, sir.\"\n\n\"No!\" said Mr. Gibson, with a slight twinkle in his eye and a curl on\nhis lips, not unnoticed by the indignant Mr. Coxe. \"I believe I was\nonce considered tolerably good-looking, and I daresay I was as great\na coxcomb as any one at twenty; but I don't think that even then I\nshould quite have believed that all those pretty compliments were\naddressed to myself.\"\n\n\"It was not the conduct of a gentleman, sir,\" repeated Mr. Coxe,\nstammering over his words--he was going on to say something more,\nwhen Mr. Gibson broke in,--\n\n\"And let me tell you, young man,\" replied Mr. Gibson, with a sudden\nsternness in his voice, \"that what you have done is only excusable\nin consideration of your youth and extreme ignorance of what are\nconsidered the laws of domestic honour. I receive you into my house\nas a member of my family--you induce one of my servants--corrupting\nher with a bribe, I have no doubt--\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir! I never gave her a penny.\"\n\n\"Then you ought to have done. You should always pay those who do your\ndirty work.\"\n\n\"Just now, sir, you called it corrupting with a bribe,\" muttered Mr.\nCoxe.\n\nMr. Gibson took no notice of this speech, but went on--\"Inducing one\nof my servants to risk her place, without offering her the slightest\nequivalent, by begging her to convey a letter clandestinely to my\ndaughter--a mere child.\"\n\n\"Miss Gibson, sir, is nearly seventeen! I heard you say so only the\nother day,\" said Mr. Coxe, aged twenty. Again Mr. Gibson ignored the\nremark.\n\n\"A letter which you were unwilling to have seen by her father, who\nhad tacitly trusted to your honour, by receiving you as an inmate of\nhis house. Your father's son--I know Major Coxe well--ought to have\ncome to me, and have said out openly, 'Mr. Gibson, I love--or I fancy\nthat I love--your daughter; I do not think it right to conceal this\nfrom you, although unable to earn a penny; and with no prospect of an\nunassisted livelihood, even for myself, for several years, I shall\nnot say a word about my feelings--or fancied feelings--to the very\nyoung lady herself.' That is what your father's son ought to have\nsaid; if, indeed, a couple of grains of reticent silence wouldn't\nhave been better still.\"\n\n\"And if I had said it, sir--perhaps I ought to have said it,\" said\nMr. Coxe, in a hurry of anxiety, \"what would have been your answer?\nWould you have sanctioned my passion, sir?\"\n\n\"I would have said, most probably--I will not be certain of my exact\nwords in a suppositional case--that you were a young fool, but not\na dishonourable young fool, and I should have told you not to let\nyour thoughts run upon a calf-love until you had magnified it into\na passion. And I daresay, to make up for the mortification I should\nhave given you, I might have prescribed your joining the Hollingford\nCricket Club, and set you at liberty as often as I could on the\nSaturday afternoons. As it is, I must write to your father's agent in\nLondon, and ask him to remove you out of my household, repaying the\npremium, of course, which will enable you to start afresh in some\nother doctor's surgery.\"\n\n\"It will so grieve my father,\" said Mr. Coxe, startled into dismay,\nif not repentance.\n\n\"I see no other course open. It will give Major Coxe some trouble\n(I shall take care that he is at no extra expense), but what I think\nwill grieve him the most is the betrayal of confidence; for I trusted\nyou, Edward, like a son of my own!\" There was something in Mr.\nGibson's voice when he spoke seriously, especially when he referred\nto any feeling of his own--he who so rarely betrayed what was passing\nin his heart--that was irresistible to most people: the change from\njoking and sarcasm to tender gravity.\n\nMr. Coxe hung his head a little, and meditated.\n\n\"I do love Miss Gibson,\" said he, at length. \"Who could help it?\"\n\n\"Mr. Wynne, I hope!\" said Mr. Gibson.\n\n\"His heart is pre-engaged,\" replied Mr. Coxe. \"Mine was free as air\ntill I saw her.\"\n\n\"Would it tend to cure your--well! passion, we'll say--if she wore\nblue spectacles at meal-times? I observe you dwell much on the beauty\nof her eyes.\"\n\n\"You are ridiculing my feelings, Mr. Gibson. Do you forget that you\nyourself were young once?\"\n\n\"Poor Jeanie\" rose before Mr. Gibson's eyes; and he felt a little\nrebuked.\n\n\"Come, Mr. Coxe, let us see if we can't make a bargain,\" said he,\nafter a minute or so of silence. \"You have done a really wrong thing,\nand I hope you are convinced of it in your heart, or that you will\nbe when the heat of this discussion is over, and you come to think a\nlittle about it. But I won't lose all respect for your father's son.\nIf you will give me your word that, as long as you remain a member of\nmy family--pupil, apprentice, what you will--you won't again try to\ndisclose your passion--you see I am careful to take your view of what\nI should call a mere fancy--by word or writing, looks or acts, in any\nmanner whatever, to my daughter, or to talk about your feelings to\nany one else, you shall remain here. If you cannot give me your word,\nI must follow out the course I named, and write to your father's\nagent.\"\n\nMr. Coxe stood irresolute.\n\n\"Mr. Wynne knows all I feel for Miss Gibson, sir. He and I have no\nsecrets from each other.\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose he must represent the reeds. You know the story of\nKing Midas's barber, who found out that his royal master had the ears\nof an ass beneath his hyacinthine curls. So the barber, in default\nof a Mr. Wynne, went to the reeds that grew on the shores of a\nneighbouring lake, and whispered to them, 'King Midas has the ears of\nan ass.' But he repeated it so often that the reeds learnt the words,\nand kept on saying them all day long, till at last the secret was no\nsecret at all. If you keep on telling your tale to Mr. Wynne, are you\nsure he won't repeat it in his turn?\"\n\n\"If I pledge my word as a gentleman, sir, I pledge it for Mr. Wynne\nas well.\"\n\n\"I suppose I must run the risk. But remember how soon a young girl's\nname may be breathed upon, and sullied. Molly has no mother, and for\nthat very reason she ought to move among you all, as unharmed as Una\nherself.\"\n\n\"Mr. Gibson, if you wish it, I'll swear it on the Bible,\" cried the\nexcitable young man.\n\n\"Nonsense. As if your word, if it's worth anything, wasn't enough!\nWe'll shake hands upon it, if you like.\"\n\nMr. Coxe came forward eagerly, and almost squeezed Mr. Gibson's ring\ninto his finger.\n\nAs he was leaving the room, he said, a little uneasily, \"May I give\nBethia a crown-piece?\"\n\n\"No, indeed! Leave Bethia to me. I hope you won't say another word to\nher while she's here. I shall see that she gets a respectable place\nwhen she goes away.\"\n\nThen Mr. Gibson rang for his horse, and went out on the last visits\nof the day. He used to reckon that he rode the world around in the\ncourse of the year. There were not many surgeons in the county who\nhad so wide a range of practice as he; he went to lonely cottages on\nthe borders of great commons; to farm-houses at the end of narrow\ncountry lanes that led to nowhere else, and were overshadowed by the\nelms and beeches overhead. He attended all the gentry within a circle\nof fifteen miles round Hollingford; and was the appointed doctor to\nthe still greater families who went up to London every February--as\nthe fashion then was--and returned to their acres in the early weeks\nof July. He was, of necessity, a great deal from home, and on this\nsoft and pleasant summer evening he felt the absence as a great evil.\nHe was startled at discovering that his little one was growing fast\ninto a woman, and already the passive object of some of the strong\ninterests that affect a woman's life; and he--her mother as well as\nher father--so much away that he could not guard her as he would\nhave wished. The end of his cogitations was that ride to Hamley the\nnext morning, when he proposed to allow his daughter to accept Mrs.\nHamley's last invitation--an invitation that had been declined at the\ntime.\n\n\"You may quote against me the proverb, 'He that will not when he\nmay, when he will he shall have nay.' And I shall have no reason to\ncomplain,\" he had said.\n\nBut Mrs. Hamley was only too much charmed with the prospect of having\na young girl for a visitor; one whom it would not be a trouble to\nentertain; who might be sent out to ramble in the gardens, or told\nto read when the invalid was too much fatigued for conversation; and\nyet one whose youth and freshness would bring a charm, like a waft\nof sweet summer air, into her lonely shut-up life. Nothing could be\npleasanter, and so Molly's visit to Hamley was easily settled.\n\n\"I only wish Osborne and Roger had been at home,\" said Mrs. Hamley,\nin her low soft voice. \"She may find it dull, being with old people,\nlike the squire and me, from morning till night. When can she come?\nthe darling--I am beginning to love her already!\"\n\nMr. Gibson was very glad in his heart that the young men of the house\nwere out of the way; he did not want his little Molly to be passing\nfrom Scylla to Charybdis; and, as he afterwards scoffed at himself\nfor thinking, he had got an idea that all young men were wolves in\nchase of his one ewe-lamb.\n\n\"She knows nothing of the pleasure in store for her,\" he replied;\n\"and I'm sure I don't know what feminine preparations she may think\nnecessary, or how long they may take. You'll remember she is a little\nignoramus, and has had no ... training in etiquette; our ways at\nhome are rather rough for a girl, I'm afraid. But I know I could not\nsend her into a kinder atmosphere than this.\"\n\nWhen the Squire heard from his wife of Mr. Gibson's proposal, he was\nas much pleased as she at the prospect of their youthful visitor;\nfor he was a man of a hearty hospitality, when his pride did not\ninterfere with its gratification; and he was delighted to think of\nhis sick wife's having such an agreeable companion in her hours of\nloneliness. After a while he said,--\"It's as well the lads are at\nCambridge; we might have been having a love-affair if they had been\nat home.\"\n\n\"Well--and if we had?\" asked his more romantic wife.\n\n\"It wouldn't have done,\" said the Squire, decidedly. \"Osborne\nwill have had a first-rate education--as good as any man in the\ncounty--he'll have this property, and he's a Hamley of Hamley; not a\nfamily in the shire is as old as we are, or settled on their ground\nso well. Osborne may marry where he likes. If Lord Hollingford had a\ndaughter, Osborne would have been as good a match as she could have\nrequired. It would never do for him to fall in love with Gibson's\ndaughter--I shouldn't allow it. So it's as well he's out of the way.\"\n\n\"Well! perhaps Osborne had better look higher.\"\n\n\"Perhaps! I say he must.\" The Squire brought his hand down with a\nthump on the table, near him, which made his wife's heart beat hard\nfor some minutes. \"And as for Roger,\" he continued, unconscious of\nthe flutter he had put her into, \"he'll have to make his own way,\nand earn his own bread; and, I'm afraid, he's not getting on very\nbrilliantly at Cambridge. He mustn't think of falling in love for\nthese ten years.\"\n\n\"Unless he marries a fortune,\" said Mrs. Hamley, more by way of\nconcealing her palpitation than anything else; for she was unworldly\nand romantic to a fault.\n\n\"No son of mine shall ever marry a wife who is richer than himself\nwith my good will,\" said the Squire again, with emphasis, but without\na thump.\n\n\"I don't say but what if Roger is gaining five hundred a year by\nthe time he's thirty, he shall not choose a wife with ten thousand\npounds down; but I do say, if a boy of mine, with only two hundred a\nyear--which is all Roger will have from us, and that not for a long\ntime--goes and marries a woman with fifty thousand to her portion,\nI'll disown him--it would be just disgusting.\"\n\n\"Not if they loved each other, and their whole happiness depended\nupon their marrying each other,\" put in Mrs. Hamley, mildly.\n\n\"Pooh! away with love! Nay, my dear, we loved each other so dearly\nwe should never have been happy with any one else; but that's a\ndifferent thing. People aren't like what they were when we were\nyoung. All the love nowadays is just silly fancy, and sentimental\nromance, as far as I can see.\"\n\nMr. Gibson thought that he had settled everything about Molly's going\nto Hamley before he spoke to her about it, which he did not do, until\nthe morning of the day on which Mrs. Hamley expected her. Then he\nsaid,--\"By the way, Molly! you're to go to Hamley this afternoon;\nMrs. Hamley wants you to go to her for a week or two, and it suits me\ncapitally that you should accept her invitation just now.\"\n\n\"Go to Hamley! This afternoon! Papa, you've got some odd reason at\nthe back of your head--some mystery, or something. Please, tell me\nwhat it is. Go to Hamley for a week or two! Why, I never was from\nhome before this without you in all my life.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. I don't think you ever walked before you put your feet\nto the ground. Everything must have a beginning.\"\n\n\"It has something to do with that letter that was directed to me, but\nthat you took out of my hands before I could even see the writing of\nthe direction.\" She fixed her grey eyes on her father's face, as if\nshe meant to pluck out his secret.\n\nHe only smiled and said,--\"You're a witch, goosey!\"\n\n\"Then it had! But if it was a note from Mrs. Hamley, why might I\nnot see it? I have been wondering if you had some plan in your head\never since that day.--Thursday, wasn't it? You've gone about in a\nkind of thoughtful, perplexed way, just like a conspirator. Tell me,\npapa\"--coming up to him, and putting on a beseeching manner--\"why\nmightn't I see that note? and why am I to go to Hamley all on a\nsudden?\"\n\n\"Don't you like to go? Would you rather not?\" If she had said that\nshe did not want to go he would have been rather pleased than\notherwise, although it would have put him into a great perplexity;\nbut he was beginning to dread the parting from her even for so short\na time. However, she replied directly,--\n\n\"I don't know--I daresay I shall like it when I have thought a little\nmore about it. Just now I'm so startled by the suddenness of the\naffair, I haven't considered whether I shall like it or not. I shan't\nlike going away from you, I know. Why am I to go, papa?\"\n\n\"There are three old ladies sitting somewhere, and thinking about\nyou just at this very minute; one has a distaff in her hands, and is\nspinning a thread; she has come to a knot in it, and is puzzled what\nto do with it. Her sister has a great pair of scissors in her hands,\nand wants--as she always does, when any difficulty arises in the\nsmoothness of the thread--to cut it off short; but the third, who has\nthe most head of the three, plans how to undo the knot; and she it is\nwho has decided that you are to go to Hamley. The others are quite\nconvinced by her arguments; so, as the Fates have decreed that this\nvisit is to be paid, there is nothing left for you and me but to\nsubmit.\"\n\n\"That's all nonsense, papa, and you're only making me more curious to\nfind out this hidden reason.\"\n\nMr. Gibson changed his tone, and spoke gravely now. \"There is a\nreason, Molly, and one which I do not wish to give. When I tell you\nthis much, I expect you to be an honourable girl, and to try and not\neven conjecture what the reason may be,--much less endeavour to put\nlittle discoveries together till very likely you may find out what I\nwant to conceal.\"\n\n\"Papa, I won't even think about your reason again. But then I shall\nhave to plague you with another question. I've had no new gown this\nyear, and I've outgrown all my last summer frocks. I've only three\nthat I can wear at all. Betty was saying only yesterday that I ought\nto have some more.\"\n\n\"That'll do that you have got on, won't it? It's a very pretty\ncolour.\"\n\n\"Yes; but, papa\" (holding it out as if she was going to dance), \"it's\nmade of woollen, and so hot and heavy; and every day it will be\ngetting warmer.\"\n\n\"I wish girls could dress like boys,\" said Mr. Gibson, with a little\nimpatience. \"How is a man to know when his daughter wants clothes?\nand how is he to rig her out when he finds it out, just when she\nneeds them most and hasn't got them?\"\n\n\"Ah, that's the question!\" said Molly, in some despair.\n\n\"Can't you go to Miss Rose's? Doesn't she keep ready-made frocks for\ngirls of your age?\"\n\n\"Miss Rose! I never had anything from her in my life,\" replied Molly,\nin some surprise; for Miss Rose was the great dressmaker and milliner\nof the little town, and hitherto Betty had made the girl's frocks.\n\n\"Well, but it seems people consider you as a young woman now, and\nso I suppose you must run up milliners' bills like the rest of your\nkind. Not that you're to get anything anywhere that you can't pay for\ndown in ready money. Here's a ten-pound note; go to Miss Rose's, or\nMiss anybody's, and get what you want at once. The Hamley carriage\nis to come for you at two, and anything that isn't quite ready, can\neasily be sent by their cart on Saturday, when some of their people\nalways come to market. Nay, don't thank me! I don't want to have the\nmoney spent, and I don't want you to go and leave me: I shall miss\nyou, I know; it's only hard necessity that drives me to send you\na-visiting, and to throw away ten pounds on your clothes. There, go\naway; you're a plague, and I mean to leave off loving you as fast as\nI can.\"\n\n\"Papa!\" holding up her finger as in warning, \"you're getting\nmysterious again; and though my honourableness is very strong, I\nwon't promise that it shall not yield to my curiosity if you go on\nhinting at untold secrets.\"\n\n\"Go away and spend your ten pounds. What did I give it you for but to\nkeep you quiet?\"\n\nMiss Rose's ready-made resources and Molly's taste combined, did not\narrive at a very great success. She bought a lilac print, because\nit would wash, and would be cool and pleasant for the mornings; and\nthis Betty could make at home before Saturday. And for high-days and\nholidays--by which was understood afternoons and Sundays--Miss Rose\npersuaded her to order a gay-coloured flimsy plaid silk, which she\nassured her was quite the latest fashion in London, and which Molly\nthought would please her father's Scotch blood. But when he saw the\nscrap which she had brought home as a pattern, he cried out that the\nplaid belonged to no clan in existence, and that Molly ought to have\nknown this by instinct. It was too late to change it, however, for\nMiss Rose had promised to cut the dress out as soon as Molly left her\nshop.\n\nMr. Gibson had hung about the town all the morning instead of going\naway on his usual distant rides. He passed his daughter once or twice\nin the street, but he did not cross over when he was on the opposite\nside--only gave her a look or a nod, and went on his way, scolding\nhimself for his weakness in feeling so much pain at the thought of\nher absence for a fortnight or so.\n\n\"And, after all,\" thought he, \"I'm only where I was when she comes\nback; at least, if that foolish fellow goes on with his imaginating\nfancy. She'll have to come back some time, and if he chooses to\nimagine himself constant, there's still the devil to pay.\" Presently\nhe began to hum the air out of the \"Beggar's Opera\"--\n\n   I wonder any man alive\n     Should ever rear a daughter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nA VISIT TO THE HAMLEYS.\n\n\nOf course the news of Miss Gibson's approaching departure had spread\nthrough the household before the one o'clock dinner-time came; and\nMr. Coxe's dismal countenance was a source of much inward irritation\nto Mr. Gibson, who kept giving the youth sharp glances of savage\nreproof for his melancholy face, and want of appetite; which he\ntrotted out, with a good deal of sad ostentation; all of which was\nlost upon Molly, who was too full of her own personal concerns to\nhave any thought or observation to spare from them, excepting once or\ntwice when she thought of the many days that must pass over before\nshe should again sit down to dinner with her father.\n\nWhen she named this to him after the meal was over, and they were\nsitting together in the drawing-room, waiting for the sound of the\nwheels of the Hamley carriage, he laughed, and said,--\n\n\"I'm coming over to-morrow to see Mrs. Hamley; and I daresay I shall\ndine at their lunch; so you won't have to wait long before you've the\ntreat of seeing the wild beast feed.\"\n\nThen they heard the approaching carriage.\n\n\"Oh, papa,\" said Molly, catching at his hand, \"I do so wish I wasn't\ngoing, now that the time is come.\"\n\n\"Nonsense; don't let us have any sentiment. Have you got your keys?\nthat's more to the purpose.\"\n\nYes; she had got her keys, and her purse; and her little box was\nput up on the seat by the coachman; and her father handed her in;\nthe door was shut, and she drove away in solitary grandeur, looking\nback and kissing her hand to her father, who stood at the gate, in\nspite of his dislike of sentiment, as long as the carriage could\nbe seen. Then he turned into the surgery, and found Mr. Coxe had\nhad his watching too, and had, indeed, remained at the window\ngazing, moonstruck, at the empty road, up which the young lady had\ndisappeared. Mr. Gibson startled him from his reverie by a sharp,\nalmost venomous, speech about some small neglect of duty a day or two\nbefore. That night Mr. Gibson insisted on passing by the bedside of a\npoor girl whose parents were worn-out by many wakeful anxious nights\nsucceeding to hard-working days.\n\nMolly cried a little, but checked her tears as soon as she remembered\nhow annoyed her father would have been at the sight of them. It\nwas very pleasant driving quickly along in the luxurious carriage,\nthrough the pretty green lanes, with dog-roses and honeysuckles so\nplentiful and rathe in the hedges, that she once or twice was tempted\nto ask the coachman to stop till she had gathered a nosegay. She\nbegan to dread the end of her little journey of seven miles; the only\ndrawback to which was, that her silk was not a true clan-tartan, and\na little uncertainty as to Miss Rose's punctuality. At length they\ncame to a village; straggling cottages lined the road, an old church\nstood on a kind of green, with the public-house close by it; there\nwas a great tree, with a bench all round the trunk, midway between\nthe church gates and the little inn. The wooden stocks were close to\nthe gates. Molly had long passed the limit of her rides, but she knew\nthis must be the village of Hamley, and that they must be very near\nto the hall.\n\nThey swung in at the gates of the park in a few minutes, and drove up\nthrough meadow-grass, ripening for hay,--it was no grand aristocratic\ndeer-park this--to the old red-brick hall; not three hundred yards\nfrom the high-road. There had been no footman sent with the carriage,\nbut a respectable servant stood at the door, even before they drew\nup, ready to receive the expected visitor, and take her into the\ndrawing-room where his mistress lay awaiting her.\n\nMrs. Hamley rose from her sofa to give Molly a gentle welcome; she\nkept the girl's hand in hers after she had finished speaking, looking\ninto her face, as if studying it, and unconscious of the faint blush\nshe called up on the otherwise colourless cheeks.\n\n\"I think we shall be great friends,\" said she, at length. \"I like\nyour face, and I am always guided by first impressions. Give me a\nkiss, my dear.\"\n\nIt was far easier to be active than passive during this process of\n\"swearing eternal friendship,\" and Molly willingly kissed the sweet\npale face held up to her.\n\n\"I meant to have gone and fetched you myself; but the heat oppresses\nme, and I did not feel up to the exertion. I hope you had a pleasant\ndrive?\"\n\n\"Very,\" said Molly, with shy conciseness.\n\n\"And now I will take you to your room; I have had you put close to\nme; I thought you would like it better, even though it was a smaller\nroom than the other.\"\n\nShe rose languidly, and wrapping her light shawl round her yet\nelegant figure, led the way upstairs. Molly's bedroom opened\nout of Mrs. Hamley's private sitting-room; on the other side of\nwhich was her own bedroom. She showed Molly this easy means of\ncommunication, and then, telling her visitor she would await her in\nthe sitting-room, she closed the door, and Molly was left at leisure\nto make acquaintance with her surroundings.\n\nFirst of all, she went to the window to see what was to be seen.\nA flower-garden right below; a meadow of ripe grass just beyond,\nchanging colour in long sweeps, as the soft wind blew over it; great\nold forest-trees a little on one side; and, beyond them again, to be\nseen only by standing very close to the side of the window-sill, or\nby putting her head out, if the window was open, the silver shimmer\nof a mere, about a quarter of a mile off. On the opposite side to the\ntrees and the mere, the look-out was bounded by the old walls and\nhigh-peaked roofs of the extensive farm-buildings. The deliciousness\nof the early summer silence was only broken by the song of the birds,\nand the nearer hum of bees. Listening to these sounds, which enhanced\nthe exquisite sense of stillness, and puzzling out objects obscured\nby distance or shadow, Molly forgot herself, and was suddenly\nstartled into a sense of the present by a sound of voices in the\nnext room--some servant or other speaking to Mrs. Hamley. Molly\nhurried to unpack her box, and arrange her few clothes in the\npretty old-fashioned chest of drawers, which was to serve her\nas dressing-table as well. All the furniture in the room was as\nold-fashioned and as well-preserved as it could be. The chintz\ncurtains were Indian calico of the last century--the colours almost\nwashed out, but the stuff itself exquisitely clean. There was a\nlittle strip of bedside carpeting, but the wooden flooring, thus\nliberally displayed, was of finely-grained oak, so firmly joined,\nplank to plank, that no grain of dust could make its way into the\ninterstices. There were none of the luxuries of modern days; no\nwriting-table, or sofa, or pier-glass. In one corner of the walls was\na bracket, holding an Indian jar filled with pot-pourri; and that and\nthe climbing honeysuckle outside the open window scented the room\nmore exquisitely than any toilette perfumes. Molly laid out her white\ngown (of last year's date and size) upon the bed, ready for the (to\nher new) operation of dressing for dinner, and having arranged her\nhair and dress, and taken out her company worsted-work, she opened\nthe door softly, and saw Mrs. Hamley lying on the sofa.\n\n\"Shall we stay up here, my dear? I think it is pleasanter than\ndown below; and then I shall not have to come upstairs again at\ndressing-time.\"\n\n\"I shall like it very much,\" replied Molly.\n\n\"Ah! you've got your sewing, like a good girl,\" said Mrs. Hamley.\n\"Now, I don't sew much. I live alone a great deal. You see, both\nmy boys are at Cambridge, and the squire is out of doors all day\nlong--so I have almost forgotten how to sew. I read a great deal. Do\nyou like reading?\"\n\n\"It depends upon the kind of book,\" said Molly. \"I'm afraid I don't\nlike 'steady reading,' as papa calls it.\"\n\n\"But you like poetry!\" said Mrs. Hamley, almost interrupting Molly.\n\"I was sure you did, from your face. Have you read this last poem of\nMrs. Hemans? Shall I read it aloud to you?\"\n\nSo she began. Molly was not so much absorbed in listening but that\nshe could glance round the room. The character of the furniture was\nmuch the same as in her own. Old-fashioned, of handsome material,\nand faultlessly clean, the age and the foreign appearance of it gave\nan aspect of comfort and picturesqueness to the whole apartment. On\nthe walls there hung some crayon sketches--portraits. She thought\nshe could make out that one of them was a likeness of Mrs. Hamley,\nin her beautiful youth. And then she became interested in the poem,\nand dropped her work, and listened in a manner that was after Mrs.\nHamley's own heart. When the reading of the poem was ended, Mrs.\nHamley replied to some of Molly's words of admiration, by saying:\n\n\"Ah! I think I must read you some of Osborne's poetry some day; under\nseal of secrecy, remember; but I really fancy they are almost as good\nas Mrs. Hemans'.\"\n\nTo be nearly as good as Mrs. Hemans' was saying as much to the young\nladies of that day, as saying that poetry is nearly as good as\nTennyson's would be in this. Molly looked up with eager interest.\n\n\"Mr. Osborne Hamley? Does your son write poetry?\"\n\n\"Yes. I really think I may say he is a poet. He is a very brilliant,\nclever young man, and he quite hopes to get a fellowship at Trinity.\nHe says he is sure to be high up among the wranglers, and that\nhe expects to get one of the Chancellor's medals. That is his\nlikeness--the one hanging against the wall behind you.\"\n\nMolly turned round, and saw one of the crayon sketches--representing\ntwo boys, in the most youthful kind of jackets and trousers, and\nfalling collars. The elder was sitting down, reading intently.\nThe younger was standing by him, and evidently trying to call the\nattention of the reader off to some object out of doors--out of\nthe window of the very room in which they were sitting, as Molly\ndiscovered when she began to recognize the articles of furniture\nfaintly indicated in the picture.\n\n\"I like their faces!\" said Molly. \"I suppose it is so long ago now,\nthat I may speak of their likenesses to you as if they were somebody\nelse; may not I?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Mrs. Hamley, as soon as she understood what Molly\nmeant. \"Tell me just what you think of them, my dear; it will amuse\nme to compare your impressions with what they really are.\"\n\n\"Oh! but I did not mean to guess at their characters. I could not do\nit; and it would be impertinent, if I could. I can only speak about\ntheir faces as I see them in the picture.\"\n\n\"Well! tell me what you think of them!\"\n\n\"The eldest--the reading boy--is very beautiful; but I can't quite\nmake out his face yet, because his head is down, and I can't see the\neyes. That is the Mr. Osborne Hamley who writes poetry.\"\n\n\"Yes. He is not quite so handsome now; but he was a beautiful boy.\nRoger was never to be compared with him.\"\n\n\"No; he is not handsome. And yet I like his face. I can see his eyes.\nThey are grave and solemn-looking; but all the rest of his face is\nrather merry than otherwise. It looks too steady and sober, too good\na face, to go tempting his brother to leave his lesson.\"\n\n\"Ah! but it was not a lesson. I remember the painter, Mr. Green, once\nsaw Osborne reading some poetry, while Roger was trying to persuade\nhim to come out and have a ride in the hay-cart--that was the\n'motive' of the picture, to speak artistically. Roger is not much of\na reader; at least, he doesn't care for poetry, and books of romance,\nor sentiment. He is so fond of natural history; and that takes him,\nlike the squire, a great deal out of doors; and when he is in, he is\nalways reading scientific books that bear upon his pursuits. He is a\ngood, steady fellow, though, and gives us great satisfaction, but he\nis not likely to have such a brilliant career as Osborne.\"\n\nMolly tried to find out in the picture the characteristics of the\ntwo boys, as they were now explained to her by their mother; and in\nquestions and answers about the various drawings hung round the room\nthe time passed away until the dressing-bell rang for the six o'clock\ndinner.\n\nMolly was rather dismayed by the offers of the maid whom Mrs. Hamley\nhad sent to assist her. \"I am afraid they expect me to be very\nsmart,\" she kept thinking to herself. \"If they do, they'll be\ndisappointed; that's all. But I wish my plaid silk gown had been\nready.\"\n\nShe looked at herself in the glass with some anxiety, for the first\ntime in her life. She saw a slight, lean figure, promising to be\ntall; a complexion browner than cream-coloured, although in a year or\ntwo it might have that tint; plentiful curly black hair, tied up in a\nbunch behind with a rose-coloured ribbon; long, almond-shaped, soft\ngray eyes, shaded both above and below by curling black eyelashes.\n\n\"I don't think I am pretty,\" thought Molly, as she turned away from\nthe glass; \"and yet I'm not sure.\" She would have been sure, if,\ninstead of inspecting herself with such solemnity, she had smiled her\nown sweet merry smile, and called out the gleam of her teeth, and the\ncharm of her dimples.\n\nShe found her way downstairs into the drawing-room in good time;\nshe could look about her, and learn how to feel at home in her\nnew quarters. The room was forty-feet long or so, fitted up with\nyellow satin at some distant period; high spindle-legged chairs and\npembroke-tables abounded. The carpet was of the same date as the\ncurtains, and was thread-bare in many places; and in others was\ncovered with drugget. Stands of plants, great jars of flowers,\nold Indian china and cabinets gave the room the pleasant aspect\nit certainly had. And to add to it, there were five high, long\nwindows on one side of the room, all opening to the prettiest\nbit of flower-garden in the grounds--or what was considered as\nsuch--brilliant-coloured, geometrically-shaped beds, converging\nto a sun-dial in the midst. The Squire came in abruptly, and in\nhis morning dress; he stood at the door, as if surprised at the\nwhite-robed stranger in possession of his hearth. Then, suddenly\nremembering himself, but not before Molly had begun to feel very hot,\nhe said--\n\n\"Why, God bless my soul, I'd quite forgotten you; you're Miss Gibson,\nGibson's daughter, aren't you? Come to pay us a visit? I'm sure I'm\nvery glad to see you, my dear.\"\n\nBy this time, they had met in the middle of the room, and he was\nshaking Molly's hand with vehement friendliness, intended to make up\nfor his not knowing her at first.\n\n\"I must go and dress, though,\" said he, looking at his soiled\ngaiters. \"Madam likes it. It's one of her fine London ways, and she's\nbroken me into it at last. Very good plan, though, and quite right\nto make oneself fit for ladies' society. Does your father dress for\ndinner, Miss Gibson?\" He did not stay to wait for her answer, but\nhastened away to perform his toilette.\n\nThey dined at a small table in a great large room. There were so few\narticles of furniture in it, and the apartment itself was so vast,\nthat Molly longed for the snugness of the home dining-room; nay,\nit is to be feared that, before the stately dinner at Hamley Hall\ncame to an end, she even regretted the crowded chairs and tables,\nthe hurry of eating, the quick unformal manner in which everybody\nseemed to finish their meal as fast as possible, and to return to the\nwork they had left. She tried to think that at six o'clock all the\nbusiness of the day was ended, and that people might linger if they\nchose. She measured the distance from the sideboard to the table with\nher eye, and made allowances for the men who had to carry things\nbackwards and forwards; but, all the same, this dinner appeared to\nher a wearisome business, prolonged because the Squire liked it, for\nMrs. Hamley seemed tired out. She ate even less than Molly, and sent\nfor fan and smelling-bottle to amuse herself with, until at length\nthe table-cloth was cleared away, and the dessert was put upon a\nmahogany table, polished like a looking-glass.\n\nThe Squire had hitherto been too busy to talk, except about the\nimmediate concerns of the table, and one or two of the greatest\nbreaks to the usual monotony of his days; a monotony in which he\ndelighted, but which sometimes became oppressive to his wife. Now,\nhowever, peeling his orange, he turned to Molly--\n\n\"To-morrow you'll have to do this for me, Miss Gibson.\"\n\n\"Shall I? I'll do it to-day, if you like, sir.\"\n\n\"No; to-day I shall treat you as a visitor, with all proper ceremony.\nTo-morrow I shall send you errands, and call you by your Christian\nname.\"\n\n\"I shall like that,\" said Molly.\n\n\"I was wanting to call you something less formal than Miss Gibson,\"\nsaid Mrs. Hamley.\n\n\"My name is Molly. It is an old-fashioned name, and I was christened\nMary. But papa likes Molly.\"\n\n\"That's right. Keep to the good old fashions, my dear.\"\n\n\"Well, I must say I think Mary is prettier than Molly, and quite as\nold a name, too,\" said Mrs. Hamley.\n\n\"I think it was,\" said Molly, lowering her voice, and dropping her\neyes, \"because mamma was Mary, and I was called Molly while she\nlived.\"\n\n\"Ah, poor thing,\" said the squire, not perceiving his wife's signs\nto change the subject, \"I remember how sorry every one was when she\ndied; no one thought she was delicate, she had such a fresh colour,\ntill all at once she popped off, as one may say.\"\n\n\"It must have been a terrible blow to your father,\" said Mrs. Hamley,\nseeing that Molly did not know what to answer.\n\n\"Ay, ay. It came so sudden, so soon after they were married.\"\n\n\"I thought it was nearly four years,\" said Molly.\n\n\"And four years is soon--is a short time to a couple who look to\nspending their lifetime together. Every one thought Gibson would have\nmarried again.\"\n\n\"Hush,\" said Mrs. Hamley, seeing in Molly's eyes and change of colour\nhow completely this was a new idea to her. But the squire was not so\neasily stopped.\n\n\"Well--I'd perhaps better not have said it, but it's the truth; they\ndid. He's not likely to marry now, so one may say it out. Why, your\nfather is past forty, isn't he?\"\n\n\"Forty-three. I don't believe he ever thought of marrying again,\"\nsaid Molly, recurring to the idea, as one does to that of danger\nwhich has passed by, without one's being aware of it.\n\n\"No! I don't believe he did, my dear. He looks to me just like a man\nwho would be constant to the memory of his wife. You must not mind\nwhat the squire says.\"\n\n\"Ah! you'd better go away, if you're going to teach Miss Gibson such\ntreason as that against the master of the house.\"\n\nMolly went into the drawing-room with Mrs. Hamley, but her thoughts\ndid not change with the room. She could not help dwelling on the\ndanger which she fancied she had escaped, and was astonished at\nher own stupidity at never having imagined such a possibility as\nher father's second marriage. She felt that she was answering Mrs.\nHamley's remarks in a very unsatisfactory manner.\n\n\"There is papa, with the Squire!\" she suddenly exclaimed. There they\nwere coming across the flower-garden from the stable-yard, her father\nswitching his boots with his riding whip, in order to make them\npresentable in Mrs. Hamley's drawing-room. He looked so exactly like\nhis usual self, his home-self, that the seeing him in the flesh was\nthe most efficacious way of dispelling the phantom fears of a second\nwedding, which were beginning to harass his daughter's mind; and the\npleasant conviction that he could not rest till he had come over\nto see how she was going on in her new home, stole into her heart,\nalthough he spoke but little to her, and that little was all in a\njoking tone. After he had gone away, the Squire undertook to teach\nher cribbage, and she was happy enough now to give him all her\nattention. He kept on prattling while they played; sometimes in\nrelation to the cards; at others telling her of small occurrences\nwhich he thought might interest her.\n\n\"So you don't know my boys, even by sight. I should have thought you\nwould have done, for they're fond enough of riding into Hollingford;\nand I know Roger has often enough been to borrow books from your\nfather. Roger is a scientific sort of a fellow. Osborne is clever,\nlike his mother. I shouldn't wonder if he published a book some day.\nYou're not counting right, Miss Gibson. Why, I could cheat you as\neasily as possible.\" And so on, till the butler came in with a solemn\nlook, placed a large prayer-book before his master, who huddled the\ncards away in a hurry, as if caught in an incongruous employment; and\nthen the maids and men trooped in to prayers--the windows were still\nopen, and the sounds of the solitary corncrake, and the owl hooting\nin the trees, mingled with the words spoken. Then to bed; and so\nended the day.\n\nMolly looked out of her chamber window--leaning on the sill, and\nsnuffing up the night odours of the honeysuckle. The soft velvet\ndarkness hid everything that was at any distance from her; although\nshe was as conscious of their presence as if she had seen them.\n\n\"I think I shall be very happy here,\" was in Molly's thoughts, as she\nturned away at length, and began to prepare for bed. Before long the\nSquire's words, relating to her father's second marriage, came across\nher, and spoilt the sweet peace of her final thoughts. \"Who could he\nhave married?\" she asked herself. \"Miss Eyre? Miss Browning? Miss\nPhoebe? Miss Goodenough?\" One by one, each of these was rejected\nfor sufficient reasons. Yet the unsatisfied question rankled in her\nmind, and darted out of ambush to disturb her dreams.\n\nMrs. Hamley did not come down to breakfast; and Molly found out\nwith a little dismay, that the Squire and she were to have it by\nthemselves. On this first morning he put aside his newspapers--one\nan old established Tory journal, with all the local and county\nnews, which was the most interesting to him; the other the _Morning\nChronicle_, which he called his dose of bitters, and which called out\nmany a strong expression and tolerably pungent oath. To-day, however,\nhe was \"on his manners,\" as he afterwards explained to Molly; and he\nplunged about, trying to find ground for a conversation. He could\ntalk of his wife and his sons, his estate, and his mode of farming;\nhis tenants, and the mismanagement of the last county election.\nMolly's interests were her father, Miss Eyre, her garden and pony;\nin a fainter degree Miss Brownings, the Cumnor Charity School, and\nthe new gown that was to come from Miss Rose's; into the midst of\nwhich the one great question, \"Who was it that people thought it was\npossible papa might marry?\" kept popping up into her mouth, like a\ntroublesome Jack-in-the-box. For the present, however, the lid was\nsnapped down upon the intruder as often as he showed his head between\nher teeth. They were very polite to each other during the meal; and\nit was not a little tiresome to both. When it was ended the Squire\nwithdrew into his study to read the untasted newspapers. It was\nthe custom to call the room in which Squire Hamley kept his coats,\nboots, and gaiters, his different sticks and favourite spud, his\ngun and fishing-rods, \"the study.\" There was a bureau in it, and a\nthree-cornered arm-chair, but no books were visible. The greater part\nof them were kept in a large, musty-smelling room, in an unfrequented\npart of the house; so unfrequented that the housemaid often neglected\nto open the window-shutters, which looked into a part of the grounds\nover-grown with the luxuriant growth of shrubs. Indeed, it was a\ntradition in the servants' hall that, in the late squire's time--he\nwho had been plucked at college--the library windows had been boarded\nup to avoid paying the window-tax. And when the \"young gentlemen\"\nwere at home the housemaid, without a single direction to that\neffect, was regular in her charge of this room; opened the windows\nand lighted fires daily, and dusted the handsomely-bound volumes,\nwhich were really a very fair collection of the standard literature\nin the middle of the last century. All the books that had been\npurchased since that time were held in small book-cases between\neach two of the drawing-room windows, and in Mrs. Hamley's own\nsitting-room upstairs. Those in the drawing-room were quite enough to\nemploy Molly; indeed, she was so deep in one of Sir Walter Scott's\nnovels that she jumped as if she had been shot, when an hour or so\nafter breakfast the Squire came to the gravel-path outside one of the\nwindows, and called to ask her if she would like to come out of doors\nand go about the garden and home-fields with him.\n\n\"It must be a little dull for you, my girl, all by yourself, with\nnothing but books to look at, in the mornings here; but you see,\nmadam has a fancy for being quiet in the mornings: she told your\nfather about it, and so did I, but I felt sorry for you all the same,\nwhen I saw you sitting on the ground all alone in the drawing-room.\"\n\nMolly had been in the very middle of the _Bride of Lammermoor_, and\nwould gladly have stayed in-doors to finish it, but she felt the\nsquire's kindness all the same. They went in and out of old-fashioned\ngreenhouses, over trim lawns, the Squire unlocked the great walled\nkitchen-garden, and went about giving directions to gardeners; and\nall the time Molly followed him like a little dog, her mind quite\nfull of \"Ravenswood\" and \"Lucy Ashton.\" Presently, every place near\nthe house had been inspected and regulated, and the Squire was more\nat liberty to give his attention to his companion, as they passed\nthrough the little wood that separated the gardens from the adjoining\nfields. Molly, too, plucked away her thoughts from the seventeenth\ncentury; and, somehow or other, that one question, which had so\nhaunted her before, came out of her lips before she was aware--a\nliteral impromptu,--\n\n\"Who did people think papa would marry? That time--long ago--soon\nafter mamma died?\"\n\nShe dropped her voice very soft and low, as she spoke the last words.\nThe Squire turned round upon her, and looked at her face, he knew not\nwhy. It was very grave, a little pale, but her steady eyes almost\ncommanded some kind of answer.\n\n\"Whew,\" said he, whistling to gain time; not that he had anything\ndefinite to say, for no one had ever had any reason to join Mr.\nGibson's name with any known lady: it was only a loose conjecture\nthat had been hazarded on the probabilities--a young widower, with a\nlittle girl.\n\n\"I never heard of any one--his name was never coupled with any\nlady's--'twas only in the nature of things that he should marry\nagain; he may do it yet, for aught I know, and I don't think it would\nbe a bad move either. I told him so, the last time but one he was\nhere.\"\n\n\"And what did he say?\" asked breathless Molly.\n\n\"Oh: he only smiled and said nothing. You shouldn't take up words so\nseriously, my dear. Very likely he may never think of marrying again,\nand if he did, it would be a very good thing both for him and for\nyou!\"\n\nMolly muttered something, as if to herself, but the Squire might have\nheard it if he had chosen. As it was, he wisely turned the current of\nthe conversation.\n\n\"Look at that!\" he said, as they suddenly came upon the mere, or\nlarge pond. There was a small island in the middle of the glassy\nwater, on which grew tall trees, dark Scotch firs in the centre,\nsilvery shimmering willows close to the water's edge. \"We must get\nyou punted over there, some of these days. I'm not fond of using the\nboat at this time of the year, because the young birds are still in\nthe nests among the reeds and water-plants; but we'll go. There are\ncoots and grebes.\"\n\n\"Oh, look, there's a swan!\"\n\n\"Yes; there are two pair of them here. And in those trees there's\nboth a rookery and a heronry; the herons ought to be here by now, for\nthey're off to the sea in August, but I've not seen one yet. Stay!\nisn't that one--that fellow on a stone, with his long neck bent down,\nlooking into the water?\"\n\n\"Yes! I think so. I have never seen a heron, only pictures of them.\"\n\n\"They and the rooks are always at war, which doesn't do for such near\nneighbours. If both herons leave the nest they are building, the\nrooks come and tear it to pieces; and once Roger showed me a long\nstraggling fellow of a heron, with a flight of rooks after him, with\nno friendly purpose in their minds, I'll be bound. Roger knows a deal\nof natural history, and finds out queer things sometimes. He'd have\nbeen off a dozen times during this walk of ours, if he'd been here:\nhis eyes are always wandering about, and see twenty things where I\nonly see one. Why! I've known him bolt into a copse because he saw\nsomething fifteen yards off--some plant, maybe, which he'd tell me\nwas very rare, though I should say I'd seen its marrow at every turn\nin the woods; and, if we came upon such a thing as this,\" touching\na delicate film of a cobweb upon a leaf with his stick, as he spoke,\n\"why, he could tell you what insect or spider made it, and if it\nlived in rotten fir-wood, or in a cranny of good sound timber, or\ndeep down in the ground, or up in the sky, or anywhere. It's a pity\nthey don't take honours in Natural History at Cambridge. Roger would\nbe safe enough if they did.\"\n\n\"Mr. Osborne Hamley is very clever, is he not?\" Molly asked, timidly.\n\n\"Oh, yes. Osborne's a bit of a genius. His mother looks for great\nthings from Osborne. I'm rather proud of him myself. He'll get a\nTrinity fellowship, if they play him fair. As I was saying at the\nmagistrates' meeting yesterday, 'I've got a son who will make a noise\nat Cambridge, or I'm very much mistaken.' Now, isn't it a queer quip\nof Nature,\" continued the squire, turning his honest face towards\nMolly, as if he was going to impart a new idea to her, \"that I, a\nHamley of Hamley, straight in descent from nobody knows where--the\nHeptarchy, they say--What's the date of the Heptarchy?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Molly, startled at being thus appealed to.\n\n\"Well! it was some time before King Alfred, because he was the\nKing of all England, you know; but, as I was saying, here am I, of\nas good and as old a descent as any man in England, and I doubt\nif a stranger, to look at me, would take me for a gentleman, with\nmy red face, great hands and feet, and thick figure, fourteen\nstone, and never less than twelve even when I was a young man; and\nthere's Osborne, who takes after his mother, who couldn't tell her\ngreat-grandfather from Adam, bless her; and Osborne has a girl's\ndelicate face, and a slight make, and hands and feet as small as a\nlady's. He takes after madam's side, who, as I said, can't tell who\nwas her grandfather. Now, Roger is like me, a Hamley of Hamley, and\nno one who sees him in the street will ever think that red-brown,\nbig-boned, clumsy chap is of gentle blood. Yet all those Cumnor\npeople, you make such ado of in Hollingford, are mere muck of\nyesterday. I was talking to madam the other day about Osborne's\nmarrying a daughter of Lord Hollingford's--that's to say, if he had\na daughter--he's only got boys, as it happens; but I'm not sure if\nI should consent to it. I really am not sure; for you see Osborne\nwill have had a first-rate education, and his family dates from the\nHeptarchy, while I should be glad to know where the Cumnor folk were\nin the time of Queen Anne?\" He walked on, pondering the question of\nwhether he could have given his consent to this impossible marriage;\nand after some time, and when Molly had quite forgotten the subject\nto which he alluded, he broke out with--\"No! I'm sure I should have\nlooked higher. So, perhaps, it's as well my Lord Hollingford has only\nboys.\"\n\nAfter a while, he thanked Molly for her companionship, with\nold-fashioned courtesy; and told her that he thought, by this time,\nmadam would be up and dressed, and glad to have her young visitor\nwith her. He pointed out the deep purple house, with its stone\nfacings, as it was seen at some distance between the trees, and\nwatched her protectingly on her way along the field-paths.\n\n\"That's a nice girl of Gibson's,\" quoth he to himself. \"But what a\ntight hold the wench got of the notion of his marrying again! One had\nneed be on one's guard as to what one says before her. To think of\nher never having thought of the chance of a stepmother. To be sure, a\nstepmother to a girl is a different thing to a second wife to a man!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nFORESHADOWS OF LOVE PERILS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nIf Squire Hamley had been unable to tell Molly who had ever been\nthought of as her father's second wife, fate was all this time\npreparing an answer of a pretty positive kind to her wondering\ncuriosity. But fate is a cunning hussy, and builds up her plans as\nimperceptibly as a bird builds her nest; and with much the same kind\nof unconsidered trifles. The first \"trifle\" of an event was the\ndisturbance which Jenny (Mr. Gibson's cook) chose to make at Bethia's\nbeing dismissed. Bethia was a distant relation and protégée of\nJenny's, and she chose to say it was Mr. Coxe the tempter who ought\nto have \"been sent packing,\" not Bethia the tempted, the victim. In\nthis view there was quite enough plausibility to make Mr. Gibson\nfeel that he had been rather unjust. He had, however, taken care to\nprovide Bethia with another situation, to the full as good as that\nwhich she held in his family. Jenny, nevertheless, chose to give\nwarning; and though Mr. Gibson knew full well from former experience\nthat her warnings were words, not deeds, he hated the discomfort, the\nuncertainty,--the entire disagreeableness of meeting a woman at any\ntime in his house, who wore a grievance and an injury upon her face\nas legibly as Jenny took care to do.\n\nDown into the middle of this small domestic trouble came another, and\none of greater consequence. Miss Eyre had gone with her old mother,\nand her orphan nephews and nieces, to the sea-side, during Molly's\nabsence, which was only intended at first to last for a fortnight.\nAfter about ten days of this time had elapsed, Mr. Gibson received a\nbeautifully written, beautifully worded, admirably folded, and most\nneatly sealed letter from Miss Eyre. Her eldest nephew had fallen ill\nof scarlet fever, and there was every probability that the younger\nchildren would be attacked by the same complaint. It was distressing\nenough for poor Miss Eyre--this additional expense, this anxiety--the\nlong detention from home which the illness involved. But she said\nnot a word of any inconvenience to herself; she only apologized with\nhumble sincerity for her inability to return at the appointed time\nto her charge in Mr. Gibson's family; meekly adding, that perhaps it\nwas as well, for Molly had never had the scarlet fever, and even if\nMiss Eyre had been able to leave the orphan children to return to her\nemployments, it might not have been a safe or a prudent step.\n\n\"To be sure not,\" said Mr. Gibson, tearing the letter in two, and\nthrowing it into the hearth, where he soon saw it burnt to ashes. \"I\nwish I'd a five-pound house and not a woman within ten miles of me. I\nmight have some peace then.\" Apparently, he forgot Mr. Coxe's powers\nof making mischief; but indeed he might have traced that evil back\nto the unconscious Molly. The martyr-cook's entrance to take away\nthe breakfast things, which she announced by a heavy sigh, roused Mr.\nGibson from thought to action.\n\n\"Molly must stay a little longer at Hamley,\" he resolved. \"They've\noften asked for her, and now they'll have enough of her, I think. But\nI can't have her back here just yet; and so the best I can do for her\nis to leave her where she is. Mrs. Hamley seems very fond of her, and\nthe child is looking happy, and stronger in health. I'll ride round\nby Hamley to-day at any rate, and see how the land lies.\"\n\nHe found Mrs. Hamley lying on a sofa placed under the shadow of the\ngreat cedar-tree on the lawn. Molly was flitting about her, gardening\naway under her directions; tying up the long sea-green stalks of\nbright budded carnations, snipping off dead roses.\n\n\"Oh! here's papa!\" she cried out, joyfully, as he rode up to the\nwhite paling which separated the trim lawn and trimmer flower-garden\nfrom the rough park-like ground in front of the house.\n\n\"Come in--come here--through the drawing-room window,\" said Mrs.\nHamley, raising herself on her elbow. \"We've got a rose-tree to show\nyou that Molly has budded all by herself. We are both so proud of\nit.\"\n\nSo Mr. Gibson rode round to the stables, left his horse there, and\nmade his way through the house to the open-air summer-parlour under\nthe cedar-tree, where there were chairs, table, books, and tangled\nwork. Somehow, he rather disliked asking for Molly to prolong her\nvisit; so he determined to swallow his bitter first, and then take\nthe pleasure of the delicious day, the sweet repose, the murmurous,\nscented air. Molly stood by him, her hand on his shoulder. He sate\nopposite to Mrs. Hamley.\n\n\"I've come here to-day to ask a favour,\" he began.\n\n\"Granted before you name it. Am not I a bold woman?\"\n\nHe smiled and bowed, but went straight on with his speech.\n\n\"Miss Eyre, who has been Molly's governess, I suppose I must call\nher--for many years, writes to-day to say that one of the little\nnephews she took with her to Newport while Molly was staying here,\nhas caught the scarlet fever.\"\n\n\"I guess your request. I make it before you do. I beg for dear little\nMolly to stay on here. Of course Miss Eyre can't come back to you;\nand of course Molly must stay here!\"\n\n\"Thank you; thank you very much. That was my request.\"\n\nMolly's hand stole down to his, and nestled in that firm compact\ngrasp.\n\n\"Papa!--Mrs. Hamley!--I know you'll both understand me--but mayn't I\ngo home? I am very happy here; but--oh papa! I think I should like to\nbe at home with you best.\"\n\nAn uncomfortable suspicion flashed across his mind. He pulled her\nround, and looked straight and piercingly into her innocent face. Her\ncolour came at his unwonted scrutiny, but her sweet eyes were filled\nwith wonder, rather than with any feeling which he dreaded to find.\nFor an instant he had doubted whether young red-headed Mr. Coxe's\nlove might not have called out a response in his daughter's breast;\nbut he was quite clear now.\n\n\"Molly, you're rude to begin with. I don't know how you're to make\nyour peace with Mrs. Hamley, I'm sure. And in the next place, do\nyou think you're wiser than I am; or that I don't want you at home,\nif all other things were conformable? Stay where you are, and be\nthankful.\"\n\nMolly knew him well enough to be certain that the prolongation of her\nvisit at Hamley was quite a decided affair in his mind; and then she\nwas smitten with a sense of ingratitude. She left her father, and\nwent to Mrs. Hamley, and bent over her and kissed her; but she did\nnot speak. Mrs. Hamley took hold of her hand, and made room on the\nsofa for her.\n\n\"I was going to have asked for a longer visit the next time you came,\nMr. Gibson. We are such happy friends, are not we, Molly? and now,\nthat this good little nephew of Miss Eyre's--\"\n\n\"I wish he was whipped,\" said Mr. Gibson.\n\n\"--has given us such a capital reason, I shall keep Molly for a real\nlong visitation. You must come over and see us very often. There's a\nroom here for you always, you know; and I don't see why you should\nnot start on your rounds from Hamley every morning, just as well as\nfrom Hollingford.\"\n\n\"Thank you. If you hadn't been so kind to my little girl, I might be\ntempted to say something rude in answer to your last speech.\"\n\n\"Pray say it. You won't be easy till you have given it out, I know.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Hamley has found out from whom I get my rudeness,\" said Molly,\ntriumphantly. \"It's an hereditary quality.\"\n\n\"I was going to say that proposal of yours that I should sleep at\nHamley was just like a woman's idea--all kindness, and no common\nsense. How in the world would my patients find me out, seven miles\nfrom my accustomed place? They'd be sure to send for some other\ndoctor, and I should be ruined in a month.\"\n\n\"Couldn't they send on here? A messenger costs very little.\"\n\n\"Fancy old Goody Henbury struggling up to my surgery, groaning at\nevery step, and then being told to just step on seven miles farther!\nOr take the other end of society:--I don't think my Lady Cumnor's\nsmart groom would thank me for having to ride on to Hamley every time\nhis mistress wants me.\"\n\n\"Well, well, I submit. I am a woman. Molly, thou art a woman! Go and\norder some strawberries and cream for this father of yours. Such\nhumble offices fall within the province of women. Strawberries and\ncream are all kindness and no common sense, for they'll give him a\nhorrid fit of indigestion.\"\n\n\"Please speak for yourself, Mrs. Hamley,\" said Molly, merrily.\n\"I ate--oh, such a great basketful yesterday, and the squire went\nhimself to the dairy and brought out a great bowl of cream, when he\nfound me at my busy work. And I'm as well as ever I was, to-day, and\nnever had a touch of indigestion near me.\"\n\n\"She's a good girl,\" said her father, when she had danced out of\nhearing. The words were not quite an inquiry, he was so certain of\nhis answer. There was a mixture of tenderness and trust in his eyes,\nas he awaited the reply, which came in a moment.\n\n\"She's a darling. I cannot tell you how fond the Squire and I are of\nher; both of us. I am so delighted to think she isn't to go away for\na long time. The first thing I thought of this morning when I wakened\nup, was that she would soon have to return to you, unless I could\npersuade you into leaving her with me a little longer. And now she\nmust stay--oh, two months at least.\"\n\nIt was quite true that the Squire had become very fond of Molly. The\ncharm of having a young girl dancing and singing inarticulate ditties\nabout the house and garden, was indescribable in its novelty to him.\nAnd then Molly was so willing and so wise; ready both to talk and to\nlisten at the right times. Mrs. Hamley was quite right in speaking\nof her husband's fondness for Molly. But either she herself chose a\nwrong time for telling him of the prolongation of the girl's visit,\nor one of the fits of temper to which he was liable, but which he\ngenerally strove to check in the presence of his wife, was upon him;\nat any rate, he received the news in anything but a gracious frame of\nmind.\n\n\"Stay longer! Did Gibson ask for it?\"\n\n\"Yes! I don't see what else is to become of her; Miss Eyre away and\nall. It's a very awkward position for a motherless girl like her to\nbe at the head of a household with two young men in it.\"\n\n\"That's Gibson's look-out; he should have thought of it before taking\npupils, or apprentices, or whatever he calls them.\"\n\n\"My dear Squire! why, I thought you'd be as glad as I was--as I am to\nkeep Molly. I asked her to stay for an indefinite time; two months at\nleast.\"\n\n\"And to be in the house with Osborne! Roger, too, will be at home.\"\n\nBy the cloud in the Squire's eyes, Mrs. Hamley read his mind.\n\n\"Oh, she's not at all the sort of girl young men of their age would\ntake to. We like her because we see what she really is; but lads of\none or two and twenty want all the accessories of a young woman.\"\n\n\"Want what?\" growled the Squire.\n\n\"Such things as becoming dress, style of manner. They would not at\ntheir age even see that she is pretty; their ideas of beauty would\ninclude colour.\"\n\n\"I suppose all that's very clever; but I don't understand it. All I\nknow is, that it's a very dangerous thing to shut two young men of\none and three and twenty up in a country-house like this with a girl\nof seventeen--choose what her gowns may be like, or her hair, or her\neyes. And I told you particularly I didn't want Osborne, or either of\nthem, indeed, to be falling in love with her. I'm very much annoyed.\"\n\nMrs. Hamley's face fell; she became a little pale.\n\n\"Shall we make arrangements for their stopping away while she is\nhere; staying up at Cambridge, or reading with some one? going abroad\nfor a month or two?\"\n\n\"No; you've been reckoning this ever so long on their coming home.\nI've seen the marks of the weeks on your almanack. I'd sooner speak\nto Gibson, and tell him he must take his daughter away, for it's not\nconvenient to us--\"\n\n\"My dear Roger! I beg you will do no such thing. It will be so\nunkind; it will give the lie to all I said yesterday. Don't, please,\ndo that. For my sake, don't speak to Mr. Gibson!\"\n\n\"Well, well, don't put yourself in a flutter,\" for he was afraid of\nher becoming hysterical; \"I'll speak to Osborne when he comes home,\nand tell him how much I should dislike anything of the kind.\"\n\n\"And Roger is always far too full of his natural history and\ncomparative anatomy, and messes of that sort, to be thinking of\nfalling in love with Venus herself. He has not the sentiment and\nimagination of Osborne.\"\n\n\"Ah, you don't know; you never can be sure about a young man! But\nwith Roger it wouldn't so much signify. He would know he couldn't\nmarry for years to come.\"\n\nAll that afternoon the Squire tried to steer clear of Molly, to whom\nhe felt himself to have been an inhospitable traitor. But she was so\nperfectly unconscious of his shyness of her, and so merry and sweet\nin her behaviour as a welcome guest, never distrusting him for a\nmoment, however gruff he might be, that by the next morning she had\ncompletely won him round, and they were quite on the old terms again.\nAt breakfast this very morning, a letter was passed from the Squire\nto his wife, and back again, without a word as to its contents; but--\n\n\"Fortunate!\"\n\n\"Yes! very!\"\n\nLittle did Molly apply these expressions to the piece of news Mrs.\nHamley told her in the course of the day; namely, that her son\nOsborne had received an invitation to stay with a friend in the\nneighbourhood of Cambridge, and perhaps to make a tour on the\nContinent with him subsequently; and that, consequently, he would not\naccompany his brother when Roger came home.\n\nMolly was very sympathetic.\n\n\"Oh, dear! I am so sorry!\"\n\nMrs. Hamley was thankful her husband was not present, Molly spoke the\nwords so heartily.\n\n\"You have been thinking so long of his coming home. I am afraid it is\na great disappointment.\"\n\nMrs. Hamley smiled--relieved.\n\n\"Yes! it is a disappointment certainly, but we must think of\nOsborne's pleasure. And with his poetical mind, he will write us such\ndelightful travelling letters. Poor fellow! he must be going into the\nexamination to-day! Both his father and I feel sure, though, that he\nwill be a high wrangler. Only--I should like to have seen him, my own\ndear boy. But it is best as it is.\"\n\nMolly was a little puzzled by this speech, but soon put it out of her\nhead. It was a disappointment to her, too, that she should not see\nthis beautiful, brilliant young man, his mother's hero. From time to\ntime her maiden fancy had dwelt upon what he would be like; how the\nlovely boy of the picture in Mrs. Hamley's dressing-room would have\nchanged in the ten years that had elapsed since the likeness was\ntaken; if he would read poetry aloud; if he would even read his own\npoetry. However, in the never-ending feminine business of the day,\nshe soon forgot her own disappointment; it only came back to her on\nfirst wakening the next morning, as a vague something that was not\nquite so pleasant as she had anticipated, and then was banished as a\nsubject of regret. Her days at Hamley were well filled up with the\nsmall duties that would have belonged to a daughter of the house had\nthere been one. She made breakfast for the lonely squire, and would\nwillingly have carried up madam's, but that daily piece of work\nbelonged to the squire, and was jealously guarded by him. She read\nthe smaller print of the newspapers aloud to him, city articles,\nmoney and corn markets included. She strolled about the gardens with\nhim, gathering fresh flowers, meanwhile, to deck the drawing-room\nagainst Mrs. Hamley should come down. She was her companion when she\ntook her drives in the close carriage; they read poetry and mild\nliterature together in Mrs. Hamley's sitting-room upstairs. She was\nquite clever at cribbage now, and could beat the squire if she took\npains. Besides these things, there were her own independent ways of\nemploying herself. She used to try to practise an hour daily on\nthe old grand piano in the solitary drawing-room, because she had\npromised Miss Eyre she would do so. And she had found her way into\nthe library, and used to undo the heavy bars of the shutters if the\nhousemaid had forgotten this duty, and mount the ladder, sitting on\nthe steps, for an hour at a time, deep in some book of the old\nEnglish classics. The summer days were very short to this happy girl\nof seventeen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nDRIFTING INTO DANGER.\n\n\nOn Thursday, the quiet country household was stirred through all\nits fibres with the thought of Roger's coming home. Mrs. Hamley had\nnot seemed quite so well, or quite in such good spirits for two or\nthree days before; and the squire himself had appeared to be put out\nwithout any visible cause. They had not chosen to tell Molly that\nOsborne's name had only appeared very low down in the mathematical\ntripos. So all that their visitor knew was that something was out of\ntune, and she hoped that Roger's coming home would set it to rights,\nfor it was beyond the power of her small cares and wiles.\n\nOn Thursday, the housemaid apologized to her for some slight\nnegligence in her bedroom, by saying she had been busy scouring\nMr. Roger's rooms. \"Not but what they were as clean as could be\nbeforehand; but mistress would always have the young gentlemen's\nrooms cleaned afresh before they came home. If it had been Mr.\nOsborne, the whole house would have had to be done; but, to be sure,\nhe was the eldest son, so it was but likely.\" Molly was amused at\nthis testimony to the rights of heirship; but somehow she herself had\nfallen into the family manner of thinking that nothing was too great\nor too good for \"the eldest son.\" In his father's eyes, Osborne was\nthe representative of the ancient house of Hamley of Hamley, the\nfuture owner of the land which had been theirs for a thousand years.\nHis mother clung to him because they two were cast in the same\nmould, both physically and mentally--because he bore her maiden name.\nShe had indoctrinated Molly with her faith, and, in spite of her\namusement at the housemaid's speech, the girl visitor would have\nbeen as anxious as any one to show her feudal loyalty to the heir,\nif indeed it had been he that was coming. After luncheon, Mrs. Hamley\nwent to rest, in preparation for Roger's return; and Molly also\nretired to her own room, feeling that it would be better for her to\nremain there until dinner-time, and so to leave the father and mother\nto receive their boy in privacy. She took a book of MS. poems with\nher; they were all of Osborne Hamley's composition; and his mother\nhad read some of them aloud to her young visitor more than once.\nMolly had asked permission to copy one or two of those which were\nher greatest favourites; and this quiet summer afternoon she took\nthis copying for her employment, sitting at the pleasant open window,\nand losing herself in dreamy out-looks into the gardens and woods,\nquivering in the noon-tide heat. The house was so still, in its\nsilence it might have been the \"moated grange;\" the booming buzz of\nthe blue flies, in the great staircase window, seemed the loudest\nnoise in-doors. And there was scarcely a sound out-of-doors but the\nhumming of bees, in the flower-beds below the window. Distant voices\nfrom the far-away fields where they were making hay--the scent of\nwhich came in sudden wafts distinct from that of the nearer roses\nand honeysuckles--these merry piping voices just made Molly feel the\ndepth of the present silence. She had left off copying, her hand\nweary with the unusual exertion of so much writing, and she was\nlazily trying to learn one or two of the poems off by heart.\n\n   I asked of the wind, but answer made it none,\n   Save its accustomed sad and solitary moan--\n\nshe kept saying to herself, losing her sense of whatever meaning the\nwords had ever had, in the repetition which had become mechanical.\nSuddenly there was the snap of a shutting gate; wheels crackling on\nthe dry gravel, horses' feet on the drive; a loud cheerful voice\nin the house, coming up through the open windows, the hall, the\npassages, the staircase, with unwonted fulness and roundness of tone.\nThe entrance-hall downstairs was paved with diamonds of black and\nwhite marble; the low wide staircase that went in short flights\naround the hall, till you could look down upon the marble floor from\nthe top story of the house, was uncarpeted--uncovered. The Squire\nwas too proud of his beautifully-joined oaken flooring to cover this\nstair-case up unnecessarily; not to say a word of the usual state of\nwant of ready money to expend upon the decorations of his house. So,\nthrough the undraperied hollow square of the hall and staircase every\nsound ascended clear and distinct; and Molly heard the Squire's glad\n\"Hallo! here he is,\" and madam's softer, more plaintive voice; and\nthen the loud, full, strange tone, which she knew must be Roger's.\nThen there was an opening and shutting of doors, and only a distant\nbuzz of talking. Molly began again--\n\n   I asked of the wind, but answer made it none.\n\nAnd this time she had nearly finished learning the poem, when she\nheard Mrs. Hamley come hastily into her sitting-room that adjoined\nMolly's bedroom, and burst out into an irrepressible half-hysterical\nfit of sobbing. Molly was too young to have any complication of\nmotives which should prevent her going at once to try and give what\ncomfort she could. In an instant she was kneeling at Mrs. Hamley's\nfeet, holding the poor lady's hands, kissing them, murmuring soft\nwords; which, all unmeaning as they were of aught but sympathy with\nthe untold grief, did Mrs. Hamley good. She checked herself, smiling\nsadly at Molly through the midst of her thick-coming sobs.\n\n\"It's only Osborne,\" said she, at last. \"Roger has been telling us\nabout him.\"\n\n\"What about him?\" asked Molly, eagerly.\n\n\"I knew on Monday; we had a letter--he said he had not done so well\nas we had hoped--as he had hoped himself, poor fellow! He said he had\njust passed, but was only low down among the _junior optimes_, and\nnot where he had expected, and had led us to expect. But the Squire\nhas never been at college, and does not understand college terms, and\nhe has been asking Roger all about it, and Roger has been telling\nhim, and it has made him so angry. But the squire hates college\nslang;--he has never been there, you know; and he thought poor\nOsborne was taking it too lightly, and he has been asking Roger about\nit, and Roger--\"\n\nThere was a fresh fit of the sobbing crying. Molly burst out,--\"I\ndon't think Mr. Roger should have told; he had no need to begin so\nsoon about his brother's failure. Why, he hasn't been in the house an\nhour!\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, love!\" said Mrs. Hamley. \"Roger is so good. You don't\nunderstand. The squire would begin and ask questions before Roger had\ntasted food--as soon as ever we had got into the dining-room. And all\nhe said--to me, at any rate--was that Osborne was nervous, and that\nif he could only have gone in for the Chancellor's medals, he would\nhave carried all before him. But Roger said that after failing like\nthis, he is not very likely to get a fellowship, which the Squire had\nplaced his hopes on. Osborne himself seemed so sure of it, that the\nsquire can't understand it, and is seriously angry, and growing more\nso the more he talks about it. He has kept it in two or three days,\nand that never suits him. He is always better when he is angry about\na thing at once, and doesn't let it smoulder in his mind. Poor, poor\nOsborne! I did wish he had been coming straight home, instead of\ngoing to these friends of his; I thought I could have comforted him.\nBut now I'm glad, for it will be better to let his father's anger\ncool first.\"\n\nSo talking out what was in her heart, Mrs. Hamley became more\ncomposed; and at length she dismissed Molly to dress for dinner, with\na kiss, saying,--\n\n\"You're a real blessing to mothers, child! You give one such pleasant\nsympathy, both in one's gladness and in one's sorrow; in one's\npride (for I was so proud last week, so confident), and in one's\ndisappointment. And now your being a fourth at dinner will keep\nus off that sore subject; there are times when a stranger in the\nhousehold is a wonderful help.\"\n\nMolly thought over all that she had heard, as she was dressing\nand putting on the terrible, over-smart plaid gown in honour of\nthe new arrival. Her unconscious fealty to Osborne was not in the\nleast shaken by his having come to grief at Cambridge. Only she was\nindignant--with or without reason--against Roger, who seemed to have\nbrought the reality of bad news as an offering of first-fruits on his\nreturn home.\n\nShe went down into the drawing-room with anything but a welcome to\nhim in her heart. He was standing by his mother; the Squire had not\nyet made his appearance. Molly thought that the two were hand in hand\nwhen she first opened the door, but she could not be quite sure. Mrs.\nHamley came a little forwards to meet her, and introduced her in so\nfondly intimate a way to her son, that Molly, innocent and simple,\nknowing nothing but Hollingford manners, which were anything but\nformal, half put out her hand to shake hands with one of whom she had\nheard so much--the son of such kind friends. She could only hope he\nhad not seen the movement, for he made no attempt to respond to it;\nonly bowed.\n\nHe was a tall powerfully-made young man, giving the impression\nof strength more than elegance. His face was rather square,\nruddy-coloured (as his father had said), hair and eyes brown--the\nlatter rather deep-set beneath his thick eyebrows; and he had a trick\nof wrinkling up his eyelids when he wanted particularly to observe\nanything, which made his eyes look even smaller still at such times.\nHe had a large mouth, with excessively mobile lips; and another trick\nof his was, that when he was amused at anything, he resisted the\nimpulse to laugh, by a droll manner of twitching and puckering up\nhis mouth, till at length the sense of humour had its way, and\nhis features relaxed, and he broke into a broad sunny smile; his\nbeautiful teeth--his only beautiful feature--breaking out with a\nwhite gleam upon the red-brown countenance. These two tricks of\nhis--of crumpling up the eyelids, so as to concentrate the power\nof sight, which made him look stern and thoughtful; and the odd\ntwitching of the lips that was preliminary to a smile, which made\nhim look intensely merry--gave the varying expressions of his face\na greater range \"from grave to gay, from lively to severe,\" than is\ncommon with most men. To Molly, who was not finely discriminative\nin her glances at the stranger this first night, he simply appeared\n\"heavy-looking, clumsy,\" and \"a person she was sure she should never\nget on with.\" He certainly did not seem to care much what impression\nhe made upon his mother's visitor. He was at that age when young men\nadmire a formed beauty more than a face with any amount of future\ncapability of loveliness, and when they are morbidly conscious of the\ndifficulty of finding subjects of conversation in talking to girls\nin a state of feminine hobbledehoyhood. Besides, his thoughts were\nfull of other subjects, which he did not intend to allow to ooze out\nin words, yet he wanted to prevent any of that heavy silence which\nhe feared might be impending--with an angry and displeased father,\nand a timorous and distressed mother. He only looked upon Molly as\na badly-dressed, and rather awkward girl, with black hair and an\nintelligent face, who might help him in the task he had set himself\nof keeping up a bright general conversation during the rest of the\nevening; might help him--if she would, but she would not. She thought\nhim unfeeling in his talkativeness; his constant flow of words upon\nindifferent subjects was a wonder and a repulsion to her. How could\nhe go on so cheerfully while his mother sat there, scarcely eating\nanything, and doing her best, with ill-success, to swallow down the\ntears that would keep rising to her eyes; when his father's heavy\nbrow was deeply clouded, and he evidently cared nothing--at first at\nleast--for all the chatter his son poured forth? Had Mr. Roger Hamley\nno sympathy in him? She would show that she had some, at any rate. So\nshe quite declined the part, which he had hoped she would have taken,\nof respondent, and possible questioner; and his work became more\nand more like that of a man walking in a quagmire. Once the Squire\nroused himself to speak to the butler; he felt the need of outward\nstimulus--of a better vintage than usual.\n\n\"Bring up a bottle of the Burgundy with the yellow seal.\"\n\nHe spoke low; he had no spirit to speak in his usual voice. The\nbutler answered in the same tone. Molly sitting near them, and silent\nherself, heard what they said.\n\n\"If you please, sir, there are not above six bottles of that seal\nleft; and it is Mr. Osborne's favourite wine.\"\n\nThe Squire turned round with a growl in his voice.\n\n\"Bring up a bottle of the Burgundy with the yellow seal, as I said.\"\n\nThe butler went away wondering. \"Mr. Osborne's\" likes and dislikes\nhad been the law of the house in general until now. If he had liked\nany particular food or drink, any seat or place, any special degree\nof warmth or coolness, his wishes were to be attended to; for he\nwas the heir, and he was delicate, and he was the clever one of\nthe family. All the out-of-doors men would have said the same.\nMr. Osborne wished a tree cut down, or kept standing, or had\nsuch-and-such a fancy about the game, or desired something unusual\nabout the horses; and they had all to attend to it as if it were\nlaw. But to-day the Burgundy with the yellow seal was to be brought;\nand it was brought. Molly testified with quiet vehemence of action;\nshe never took wine, so she need not have been afraid of the man's\npouring it into her glass; but as an open mark of fealty to the\nabsent Osborne, however little it might be understood, she placed the\npalm of her small brown hand over the top of the glass, and held it\nthere, till the wine had gone round, and Roger and his father were in\nfull enjoyment of it.\n\nAfter dinner, too, the gentlemen lingered long over their dessert,\nand Molly heard them laughing; and then she saw them loitering\nabout in the twilight out-of-doors; Roger hatless, his hands in his\npockets, lounging by his father's side, who was now able to talk in\nhis usual loud and cheerful way, forgetting Osborne. _Væ victis!_\n\n\n[Illustration: VÆ VICTIS!]\n\n\nAnd so in mute opposition on Molly's side, in polite indifference,\nscarcely verging upon kindliness on his, Roger and she steered\nclear of each other. He had many occupations in which he needed no\ncompanionship, even if she had been qualified to give it. The worst\nwas, that she found he was in the habit of occupying the library,\nher favourite retreat, in the mornings before Mrs. Hamley came down.\nShe opened the half-closed door a day or two after his return home,\nand found him busy among books and papers, with which the large\nleather-covered table was strewn; and she softly withdrew before he\ncould turn his head and see her, so as to distinguish her from one\nof the housemaids. He rode out every day, sometimes with his father\nabout the outlying fields, sometimes far away for a good gallop.\nMolly would have enjoyed accompanying him on these occasions, for\nshe was very fond of riding; and there had been some talk of sending\nfor her habit and grey pony when first she came to Hamley; only the\nSquire, after some consideration, had said he so rarely did more\nthan go slowly from one field to another, where his labourers were\nat work, that he feared she would find such slow work--ten minutes\nriding through heavy land, twenty minutes sitting still on horseback,\nlistening to the directions he should have to give to his men--rather\ndull. Now, when if she had had her pony here she might have ridden\nout with Roger, without giving him any trouble--she would have taken\ncare of that--nobody seemed to think of renewing the proposal.\n\nAltogether it was pleasanter before he came home.\n\nHer father rode over pretty frequently; sometimes there were long\nunaccountable absences, it was true; when his daughter began to\nfidget after him, and to wonder what had become of him. But when\nhe made his appearance he had always good reasons to give; and the\nright she felt that she had to his familiar household tenderness;\nthe power she possessed of fully understanding the exact value of\nboth his words and his silence, made these glimpses of intercourse\nwith him inexpressibly charming. Latterly her burden had always been,\n\"When may I come home, papa?\" It was not that she was unhappy, or\nuncomfortable; she was passionately fond of Mrs. Hamley, she was a\nfavourite of the Squire's, and could not as yet fully understand\nwhy some people were so much afraid of him; and as for Roger, if he\ndid not add to her pleasure, he scarcely took away from it. But she\nwanted to be at home once more. The reason why she could not tell;\nbut this she knew full well. Mr. Gibson reasoned with her till\nshe was weary of being completely convinced that it was right and\nnecessary for her to stay where she was. And then with an effort she\nstopped the cry upon her tongue, for she saw that its repetition\nharassed her father.\n\nDuring this absence of hers Mr. Gibson was drifting into matrimony.\nHe was partly aware of whither he was going; and partly it was\nlike the soft floating movement of a dream. He was more passive\nthan active in the affair; though, if his reason had not fully\napproved of the step he was tending to--if he had not believed that\na second marriage was the very best way of cutting the Gordian knot\nof domestic difficulties, he could have made an effort without any\ngreat trouble, and extricated himself without pain from the mesh\nof circumstances. It happened in this manner:--Lady Cumnor having\nmarried her two eldest daughters, found her labours as a chaperone to\nLady Harriet, the youngest, considerably lightened by co-operation;\nand, at length, she had leisure to be an invalid. She was, however,\ntoo energetic to allow herself this indulgence constantly; only she\npermitted herself to break down occasionally after a long course of\ndinners, late hours, and London atmosphere: and then, leaving Lady\nHarriet with either Lady Cuxhaven or Lady Agnes Manners, she betook\nherself to the comparative quiet of the Towers, where she found\noccupation in doing her benevolence, which was sadly neglected in\nthe hurly-burly of London. This particular summer she had broken\ndown earlier than usual, and longed for the repose of the country.\nShe believed that her state of health, too, was more serious than\npreviously; but she did not say a word of this to her husband or\ndaughters; reserving her confidence for Mr. Gibson's ears. She\ndid not wish to take Lady Harriet away from the gaieties of town\nwhich she was thoroughly enjoying, by any complaint of hers, which\nmight, after all, be ill-founded; and yet she did not quite like\nbeing without a companion in the three weeks or a month that might\nintervene before her family would join her at the Towers, especially\nas the annual festivity to the school visitors was impending; and\nboth the school and the visit of the ladies connected with it, had\nrather lost the zest of novelty.\n\n\"Thursday the 19th, Harriet,\" said Lady Cumnor, meditatively; \"what\ndo you say to coming down to the Towers on the 18th, and helping me\nover that long day. You could stay in the country till Monday, and\nhave a few days' rest and good air; you would return a great deal\nfresher to the remainder of your gaieties. Your father would bring\nyou down, I know: indeed, he is coming naturally.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma!\" said Lady Harriet, the youngest daughter of the\nhouse--the prettiest, the most indulged; \"I cannot go; there's the\nwater-party up to Maidenhead on the 20th, I should be so sorry to\nmiss it: and Mrs. Duncan's ball, and Grisi's concert; please, don't\nwant me. Besides, I should do no good. I can't make provincial\nsmall-talk; I'm not up in the local politics of Hollingford. I should\nbe making mischief, I know I should.\"\n\n\"Very well, my dear,\" said Lady Cumnor, sighing, \"I had forgotten the\nMaidenhead water-party, or I would not have asked you.\"\n\n\"What a pity it isn't the Eton holidays, so that you could have had\nHollingford's boys to help you to do the honours, mamma. They are\nsuch affable little prigs. It was the greatest fun to watch them last\nyear at Sir Edward's, doing the honours of their grandfather's house\nto much such a collection of humble admirers as you get together at\nthe Towers. I shall never forget seeing Edgar gravely squiring about\nan old lady in a portentous black bonnet, and giving her information\nin the correctest grammar possible.\"\n\n\"Well, I like those lads,\" said Lady Cuxhaven; \"they are on the way\nto become true gentlemen. But, mamma, why shouldn't you have Clare to\nstay with you? You like her, and she is just the person to save you\nthe troubles of hospitality to the Hollingford people, and we should\nall be so much more comfortable if we knew you had her with you.\"\n\n\"Yes, Clare would do very well,\" said Lady Cumnor; \"but isn't it her\nschool-time or something? We must not interfere with her school so\nas to injure her, for I am afraid she is not doing too well as it is;\nand she has been so very unlucky ever since she left us--first her\nhusband died, and then she lost Lady Davies' situation, and then Mrs.\nMaude's, and now Mr. Preston told your father it was all she could\ndo to pay her way in Ashcombe, though Lord Cumnor lets her have the\nhouse rent-free.\"\n\n\"I can't think how it is,\" said Lady Harriet. \"She's not very wise,\ncertainly; but she is so useful and agreeable, and has such pleasant\nmanners, I should have thought any one who wasn't particular about\neducation would have been charmed to keep her as a governess.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by not being particular about education? Most\npeople who keep governesses for their children are supposed to be\nparticular,\" said Lady Cuxhaven.\n\n\"Well, they think themselves so, I've no doubt; but I call you\nparticular, Mary, and I don't think mamma was; but she thought\nherself so, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"I can't think what you mean, Harriet,\" said Lady Cumnor, a good deal\nannoyed at this speech of her clever, heedless, youngest daughter.\n\n\"Oh dear, mamma, you did everything you could think of for us; but\nyou see you'd ever so many other engrossing interests, and Mary\nhardly ever allows her love for her husband to interfere with her\nall-absorbing care for the children. You gave us the best of masters\nin every department, and Clare to dragonize and keep us up to\nour preparation for them, as well as ever she could; but then you\nknow, or rather you didn't know, some of the masters admired our\nvery pretty governess, and there was a kind of respectable veiled\nflirtation going on, which never came to anything, to be sure; and\nthen you were often so overwhelmed with your business as a great\nlady--fashionable and benevolent, and all that sort of thing--that\nyou used to call Clare away from us at the most critical times of\nour lessons, to write your notes, or add up your accounts, and the\nconsequence is, that I'm about the most ill-informed girl in London.\nOnly Mary was so capitally trained by good awkward Miss Benson, that\nshe is always full to overflowing with accurate knowledge, and her\nglory is reflected upon me.\"\n\n\"Do you think what Harriet says is true, Mary?\" asked Lady Cumnor,\nrather anxiously.\n\n\"I was so little with Clare in the school-room. I used to read French\nwith her; she had a beautiful accent, I remember. Both Agnes and\nHarriet were very fond of her. I used to be jealous for Miss Benson's\nsake, and perhaps--\" Lady Cuxhaven paused a minute--\"that made me\nfancy that she had a way of flattering and indulging them--not quite\nconscientious, I used to think. But girls are severe judges, and\ncertainly she had had an anxious enough lifetime. I am always so glad\nwhen we can have her, and give her a little pleasure. The only thing\nthat makes me uneasy now is the way in which she seems to send her\ndaughter away from her so much; we never can persuade her to bring\nCynthia with her when she comes to see us.\"\n\n\"Now that I call ill-natured,\" said Lady Harriet; \"here is a poor\ndear woman trying to earn her livelihood, first as a governess, and\nwhat could she do with her daughter then, but send her to school? and\nafter that, when Clare is asked to go visiting, and is too modest\nto bring her girl with her--besides all the expense of the journey,\nand the rigging out--Mary finds fault with her for her modesty and\neconomy.\"\n\n\"Well, after all, we are not discussing Clare and her affairs, but\ntrying to plan for mamma's comfort. I don't see that she can do\nbetter than ask Mrs. Kirkpatrick to come to the Towers--as soon as\nher holidays begin, I mean.\"\n\n\"Here is her last letter,\" said Lady Cumnor, who had been searching\nfor it in her escritoire, while her daughters were talking. Holding\nher glasses before her eyes, she began to read, \"'My wonted\nmisfortunes appear to have followed me to Ashcombe'--um, um, um;\nthat's not it--'Mr. Preston is most kind in sending me fruit and\nflowers from the Manor-house, according to dear Lord Cumnor's kind\ninjunction.' Oh, here it is! 'The vacation begins on the 11th,\naccording to the usual custom of schools in Ashcombe; and I must\nthen try and obtain some change of air and scene, in order to fit\nmyself for the resumption of my duties on the 10th of August.' You\nsee, girls, she would be at liberty, if she has not made any other\narrangement for spending her holidays. To-day is the 15th.\"\n\n\"I'll write to her at once, mamma,\" Lady Harriet said. \"Clare and I\nare always great friends; I was her confidant in her loves with poor\nMr. Kirkpatrick, and we've kept up our intimacy ever since. I know of\nthree offers she had besides.\"\n\n\"I sincerely hope Miss Bowes is not telling her love-affairs to Grace\nor Lily. Why, Harriet, you could not have been older than Grace when\nClare was married!\" said Lady Cuxhaven, in maternal alarm.\n\n\"No; but I was well versed in the tender passion, thanks to novels.\nNow I daresay you don't admit novels into your school-room, Mary; so\nyour daughters wouldn't be able to administer discreet sympathy to\ntheir governess in case she was the heroine of a love-affair.\"\n\n\"My dear Harriet, don't let me hear you talking of love in that way;\nit is not pretty. Love is a serious thing.\"\n\n\"My dear mamma, your exhortations are just eighteen years too late.\nI've talked all the freshness off love, and that's the reason I'm\ntired of the subject.\"\n\nThis last speech referred to a recent refusal of Lady Harriet's,\nwhich had displeased Lady Cumnor, and rather annoyed my lord; as\nthey, the parents, could see no objection to the gentleman in\nquestion. Lady Cuxhaven did not want to have the subject brought up,\nso she hastened to say,--\n\n\"Do ask the poor little daughter to come with her mother to the\nTowers; why, she must be seventeen or more; she would really be a\ncompanion to you, mamma, if her mother was unable to come.\"\n\n\"I was not ten when Clare married, and I'm nearly nine-and-twenty,\"\nadded Lady Harriet.\n\n\"Don't speak of it, Harriet; at any rate you are but eight-and-twenty\nnow, and you look a great deal younger. There is no need to be always\nbringing up your age on every possible occasion.\"\n\n\"There was need of it now, though. I wanted to make out how old\nCynthia Kirkpatrick was. I think she can't be far from eighteen.\"\n\n\"She is at school at Boulogne, I know; and so I don't think she can\nbe as old as that. Clare says something about her in this letter:\n'Under these circumstances' (the ill-success of her school), 'I\ncannot think myself justified in allowing myself the pleasure of\nhaving darling Cynthia at home for the holidays; especially as the\nperiod when the vacation in French schools commences differs from\nthat common in England; and it might occasion some confusion in my\narrangements if darling Cynthia were to come to Ashcombe, and occupy\nmy time and thoughts so immediately before the commencement of my\nscholastic duties as the 8th of August, on which day her vacation\nbegins, which is but two days before my holidays end.' So, you see,\nClare would be quite at liberty to come to me, and I daresay it would\nbe a very nice change for her.\"\n\n\"And Hollingford is busy seeing after his new laboratory at the\nTowers, and is constantly backwards and forwards. And Agnes wants to\ngo there for change of air, as soon as she is strong enough after\nher confinement. And even my own dear insatiable 'me' will have had\nenough of gaiety in two or three weeks, if this hot weather lasts.\"\n\n\"I think I may be able to come down for a few days too, if you will\nlet me, mamma; and I'll bring Grace, who is looking rather pale and\nweedy; growing too fast, I'm afraid. So I hope you won't be dull.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" said Lady Cumnor, drawing herself up, \"I should be ashamed\nof feeling dull with my resources; my duties to others and to\nmyself!\"\n\nSo the plan in its present shape was told to Lord Cumnor, who highly\napproved of it; as he always did of every project of his wife's. Lady\nCumnor's character was perhaps a little too ponderous for him in\nreality, but he was always full of admiration for all her words and\ndeeds, and used to boast of her wisdom, her benevolence, her power\nand dignity, in her absence, as if by this means he could buttress up\nhis own more feeble nature.\n\n\"Very good--very good, indeed! Clare to join you at the Towers!\nCapital! I couldn't have planned it better myself! I shall go down\nwith you on Wednesday in time for the jollification on Thursday. I\nalways enjoy that day; they are such nice, friendly people, those\ngood Hollingford ladies. Then I'll have a day with Sheepshanks, and\nperhaps I may ride over to Ashcombe and see Preston--Brown Jess can\ndo it in a day, eighteen miles--to be sure! But there's back again to\nthe Towers!--how much is twice eighteen--thirty?\"\n\n\"Thirty-six,\" said Lady Cumnor, sharply.\n\n\"So it is; you're always right, my dear. Preston's a clever, sharp\nfellow.\"\n\n\"I don't like him,\" said my lady.\n\n\"He takes looking after; but he's a sharp fellow. He's such a\ngood-looking man, too, I wonder you don't like him.\"\n\n\"I never think whether a land-agent is handsome or not. They don't\nbelong to the class of people whose appearance I notice.\"\n\n\"To be sure not. But he is a handsome fellow; and what should make\nyou like him is the interest he takes in Clare and her prospects. He\nis constantly suggesting something that can be done to her house, and\nI know he sends her fruit, and flowers, and game just as regularly as\nwe should ourselves if we lived at Ashcombe.\"\n\n\"How old is he?\" said Lady Cumnor, with a faint suspicion of motives\nin her mind.\n\n\"About twenty-seven, I think. Ah! I see what is in your ladyship's\nhead. No! no! he's too young for that. You must look out for some\nmiddle-aged man, if you want to get poor Clare married; Preston won't\ndo.\"\n\n\"I'm not a match-maker, as you might know. I never did it for my own\ndaughters. I'm not likely to do it for Clare,\" said she, leaning back\nlanguidly.\n\n\"Well! you might do a worse thing. I'm beginning to think she'll\nnever get on as a schoolmistress, though why she shouldn't, I'm sure\nI don't know; for she's an uncommonly pretty woman for her age, and\nher having lived in our family, and your having had her so often with\nyou, ought to go a good way. I say, my lady, what do you think of\nGibson? He would be just the right age--widower--lives near the\nTowers?\"\n\n\"I told you just now I was no match-maker, my lord. I suppose we had\nbetter go by the old road--the people at those inns know us?\"\n\nAnd so they passed on to speaking about other things than Mrs.\nKirkpatrick and her prospects, scholastic or matrimonial.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTHE WIDOWER AND THE WIDOW.\n\n\nMrs. Kirkpatrick was only too happy to accept Lady Cumnor's\ninvitation. It was what she had been hoping for, but hardly daring to\nexpect, as she believed that the family were settled in London for\nsome time to come. The Towers was a pleasant and luxurious house in\nwhich to pass her holidays; and though she was not one to make deep\nplans, or to look far ahead, she was quite aware of the prestige\nwhich her being able to say she had been staying with \"dear Lady\nCumnor\" at the Towers, was likely to give her and her school in\nthe eyes of a good many people; so she gladly prepared to join her\nladyship on the 17th. Her wardrobe did not require much arrangement;\nif it had done, the poor lady would not have had much money to\nappropriate to the purpose. She was very pretty and graceful; and\nthat goes a great way towards carrying off shabby clothes; and it was\nher taste more than any depth of feeling, that had made her persevere\nin wearing all the delicate tints--the violets and grays--which, with\na certain admixture of black, constitute half-mourning. This style of\nbecoming dress she was supposed to wear in memory of Mr. Kirkpatrick;\nin reality because it was both lady-like and economical. Her\nbeautiful hair was of that rich auburn that hardly ever turns gray;\nand partly out of consciousness of its beauty, and partly because the\nwashing of caps is expensive, she did not wear anything on her head;\nher complexion had the vivid tints that often accompany the kind\nof hair which has once been red; and the only injury her skin had\nreceived from advancing years was that the colouring was rather more\nbrilliant than delicate, and varied less with every passing emotion.\nShe could no longer blush; and at eighteen she had been very proud\nof her blushes. Her eyes were soft, large, and china-blue in colour;\nthey had not much expression or shadow about them, which was perhaps\nowing to the flaxen colour of her eyelashes. Her figure was a little\nfuller than it used to be, but her movements were as soft and sinuous\nas ever. Altogether, she looked much younger than her age, which\nwas not far short of forty. She had a very pleasant voice, and read\naloud well and distinctly, which Lady Cumnor liked. Indeed, for some\ninexplicable reason, she was a greater, more positive favourite with\nLady Cumnor than with any of the rest of the family, though they all\nliked her up to a certain point, and found it agreeably useful to\nhave any one in the house who was so well acquainted with their ways\nand habits; so ready to talk, when a little trickle of conversation\nwas required; so willing to listen, and to listen with tolerable\nintelligence, if the subjects spoken about did not refer to serious\nsolid literature, or science, or politics, or social economy. About\nnovels and poetry, travels and gossip, personal details, or anecdotes\nof any kind, she always made exactly the remarks which are expected\nfrom an agreeable listener; and she had sense enough to confine\nherself to those short expressions of wonder, admiration, and\nastonishment, which may mean anything, when more recondite things\nwere talked about.\n\nIt was a very pleasant change to a poor unsuccessful schoolmistress\nto leave her own house, full of battered and shabby furniture (she\nhad taken the good-will and furniture of her predecessor at a\nvaluation, two or three years before), where the look-out was as\ngloomy, and the surrounding as squalid, as is often the case in the\nsmaller streets of a country town, and to come bowling through the\nTowers Park in the luxurious carriage sent to meet her; to alight,\nand feel secure that the well-trained servants would see after her\nbags, and umbrella, and parasol, and cloak, without her loading\nherself with all these portable articles, as she had had to do\nwhile following the wheelbarrow containing her luggage in going to\nthe Ashcombe coach-office that morning; to pass up the deep-piled\ncarpets of the broad shallow stairs into my lady's own room, cool and\ndeliciously fresh, even on this sultry day, and fragrant with great\nbowls of freshly gathered roses of every shade of colour. There were\ntwo or three new novels lying uncut on the table; the daily papers,\nthe magazines. Every chair was an easy-chair of some kind or other;\nand all covered with French chintz that mimicked the real flowers in\nthe garden below. She was familiar with the bedroom called hers, to\nwhich she was soon ushered by Lady Cumnor's maid. It seemed to her\nfar more like home than the dingy place she had left that morning;\nit was so natural to her to like dainty draperies, and harmonious\ncolouring, and fine linen, and soft raiment. She sate down in the\narm-chair by the bed-side, and wondered over her fate something in\nthis fashion--\n\n\"One would think it was an easy enough thing to deck a looking-glass\nlike that with muslin and pink ribbons; and yet how hard it is to\nkeep it up! People don't know how hard it is till they've tried as\nI have. I made my own glass just as pretty when I first went to\nAshcombe; but the muslin got dirty, and the pink ribbons faded, and\nit is so difficult to earn money to renew them; and when one has got\nthe money one hasn't the heart to spend it all at once. One thinks\nand one thinks how one can get the most good out of it; and a new\ngown, or a day's pleasure, or some hot-house fruit, or some piece of\nelegance that can be seen and noticed in one's drawing-room, carries\nthe day, and good-by to prettily decked looking-glasses. Now here,\nmoney is like the air they breathe. No one even asks or knows how\nmuch the washing costs, or what pink ribbon is a yard. Ah! it would\nbe different if they had to earn every penny as I have! They would\nhave to calculate, like me, how to get the most pleasure out of it.\nI wonder if I am to go on all my life toiling and moiling for money?\nIt's not natural. Marriage is the natural thing; then the husband\nhas all that kind of dirty work to do, and his wife sits in the\ndrawing-room like a lady. I did, when poor Kirkpatrick was alive.\nHeigho! it's a sad thing to be a widow.\"\n\nThen there was the contrast between the dinners which she had to\nshare with her scholars at Ashcombe--rounds of beef, legs of mutton,\ngreat dishes of potatoes, and large batter-puddings, with the tiny\nmeal of exquisitely cooked delicacies, sent up on old Chelsea china,\nthat was served every day to the earl and countess and herself at\nthe Towers. She dreaded the end of her holidays as much as the most\nhome-loving of her pupils. But at this time that end was some weeks\noff, so Clare shut her eyes to the future, and tried to relish the\npresent to its fullest extent. A disturbance to the pleasant, even\ncourse of the summer days came in the indisposition of Lady Cumnor.\nHer husband had gone back to London, and she and Mrs. Kirkpatrick had\nbeen left to the very even tenor of life, which was according to my\nlady's wish just now. In spite of her languor and fatigue, she had\ngone through the day when the school visitors came to the Towers, in\nfull dignity, dictating clearly all that was to be done, what walks\nwere to be taken, what hothouses to be seen, and when the party were\nto return to the \"collation.\" She herself remained indoors, with\none or two ladies who had ventured to think that the fatigue or the\nheat might be too much for them, and who had therefore declined\naccompanying the ladies in charge of Mrs. Kirkpatrick, or those other\nfavoured few to whom Lord Cumnor was explaining the new buildings\nin his farm-yard. \"With the utmost condescension,\" as her hearers\nafterwards expressed it, Lady Cumnor told them all about her married\ndaughters' establishments, nurseries, plans for the education of\ntheir children, and manner of passing the day. But the exertion tired\nher; and when every one had left, the probability is that she would\nhave gone to lie down and rest, had not her husband made an unlucky\nremark in the kindness of his heart. He came up to her and put his\nhand on her shoulder.\n\n\"I'm afraid you're sadly tired, my lady?\" he said.\n\nShe braced her muscles, and drew herself up, saying coldly,--\n\n\"When I am tired, Lord Cumnor, I will tell you so.\" And her fatigue\nshowed itself during the rest of the evening in her sitting\nparticularly upright, and declining all offers of easy-chairs or\nfoot-stools, and refusing the insult of a suggestion that they\nshould all go to bed earlier. She went on in something of this\nkind of manner as long as Lord Cumnor remained at the Towers. Mrs.\nKirkpatrick was quite deceived by it, and kept assuring Lord Cumnor\nthat she had never seen dear Lady Cumnor looking better, or so\nstrong. But he had an affectionate heart, if a blundering head; and\nthough he could give no reason for his belief, he was almost certain\nhis wife was not well. Yet he was too much afraid of her to send for\nMr. Gibson without her permission. His last words to Clare were--\n\n\"It's such a comfort to leave my lady to you; only don't you be\ndeluded by her ways. She'll not show she's ill till she can't help\nit. Consult with Bradley\" (Lady Cumnor's \"own woman,\"--she disliked\nthe new-fangledness of \"lady's-maid\"); \"and if I were you, I'd send\nand ask Gibson to call--you might make any kind of a pretence,\"--and\nthen the idea he had had in London of the fitness of a match\nbetween the two coming into his head just now, he could not help\nadding,--\"Get him to come and see you, he's a very agreeable man;\nLord Hollingford says there's no one like him in these parts: and he\nmight be looking at my lady while he was talking to you, and see if\nhe thinks her really ill. And let me know what he says about her.\"\n\nBut Clare was just as great a coward about doing anything for Lady\nCumnor which she had not expressly ordered, as Lord Cumnor himself.\nShe knew she might fall into such disgrace if she sent for Mr. Gibson\nwithout direct permission, that she might never be asked to stay at\nthe Towers again; and the life there, monotonous in its smoothness of\nluxury as it might be to some, was exactly to her taste. She in her\nturn tried to put upon Bradley the duty which Lord Cumnor had put\nupon her.\n\n\"Mrs. Bradley,\" she said one day, \"are you quite comfortable about\nmy lady's health? Lord Cumnor fancied that she was looking worn and\nill?\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I don't think my lady is herself. I can't\npersuade myself as she is, though if you was to question me till\nnight I couldn't tell you why.\"\n\n\"Don't you think you could make some errand to Hollingford, and see\nMr. Gibson, and ask him to come round this way some day, and make a\ncall on Lady Cumnor?\"\n\n\"It would be as much as my place is worth, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. Till my\nlady's dying day, if Providence keeps her in her senses, she'll have\neverything done her own way, or not at all. There's only Lady Harriet\nthat can manage her the least, and she not always.\"\n\n\"Well, then--we must hope that there is nothing the matter with her;\nand I daresay there is not. She says there is not, and she ought to\nknow best herself.\"\n\nBut a day or two after this conversation took place, Lady Cumnor\nstartled Mrs. Kirkpatrick, by saying suddenly,--\"Clare, I wish you'd\nwrite a note to Mr. Gibson, saying I should like to see him this\nafternoon. I thought he would have called of himself before now. He\nought to have done so, to pay his respects.\"\n\nMr. Gibson had been far too busy in his profession to have time for\nmere visits of ceremony, though he knew quite well he was neglecting\nwhat was expected of him. But the district of which he may be said to\nhave had medical charge was full of a bad kind of low fever, which\ntook up all his time and thought, and often made him very thankful\nthat Molly was out of the way in the quiet shades of Hamley.\n\nHis domestic \"rows\" had not healed over in the least, though he\nwas obliged to put the perplexities on one side for the time. The\nlast drop--the final straw, had been an impromptu visit of Lord\nHollingford's, whom he had met in the town one forenoon. They had had\na good deal to say to each other about some new scientific discovery,\nwith the details of which Lord Hollingford was well acquainted,\nwhile Mr. Gibson was ignorant and deeply interested. At length Lord\nHollingford said suddenly,--\n\n\"Gibson, I wonder if you'd give me some lunch; I've been a good\ndeal about since my seven-o'clock breakfast, and am getting quite\nravenous.\"\n\nNow Mr. Gibson was only too much pleased to show hospitality to one\nwhom he liked and respected so much as Lord Hollingford, and he\ngladly took him home with him to the early family dinner. But it was\njust at the time when the cook was sulking at Bethia's dismissal--and\nshe chose to be unpunctual and careless. There was no successor to\nBethia as yet appointed to wait at the meals. So, though Mr. Gibson\nknew well that bread-and-cheese, cold beef, or the simplest food\navailable, would have been welcome to the hungry lord, he could not\nget either these things for luncheon, or even the family dinner, at\nanything like the proper time, in spite of all his ringing, and as\nmuch anger as he liked to show, for fear of making Lord Hollingford\nuncomfortable. At last dinner was ready, but the poor host saw\nthe want of nicety--almost the want of cleanliness, in all its\naccompaniments--dingy plate, dull-looking glass, a table-cloth that,\nif not absolutely dirty, was anything but fresh in its splashed and\nrumpled condition, and compared it in his own mind with the dainty\ndelicacy with which even a loaf of brown bread was served up at\nhis guest's home. He did not apologize directly, but, after dinner,\njust as they were parting, he said,--\"You see a man like me--a\nwidower--with a daughter who cannot always be at home--has not the\nregulated household which would enable me to command the small\nportions of time I can spend there.\"\n\nHe made no allusion to the comfortless meal of which they had both\npartaken, though it was full in his mind. Nor was it absent from Lord\nHollingford's as he made reply,--\n\n\"True, true. Yet a man like you ought to be free from any thought of\nhousehold cares. You ought to have somebody. How old is Miss Gibson?\"\n\n\"Seventeen. It's a very awkward age for a motherless girl.\"\n\n\"Yes; very. I have only boys, but it must be very awkward with\na girl. Excuse me, Gibson, but we're talking like friends. Have\nyou never thought of marrying again? It wouldn't be like a first\nmarriage, of course; but if you found a sensible, agreeable woman of\nthirty or so, I really think you couldn't do better than take her to\nmanage your home, and so save you either discomfort or worry; and,\nbesides, she would be able to give your daughter that kind of tender\nsupervision which, I fancy, all girls of that age require. It's a\ndelicate subject, but you'll excuse my having spoken frankly.\"\n\nMr. Gibson had thought of this advice several times since it was\ngiven; but it was a case of \"first catch your hare.\" Where was the\n\"sensible and agreeable woman of thirty or so?\" Not Miss Browning,\nnor Miss Phoebe, nor Miss Goodenough. Among his country patients\nthere were two classes pretty distinctly marked: farmers, whose\nchildren were unrefined and uneducated; squires, whose daughters\nwould, indeed, think the world was coming to a pretty pass, if they\nwere to marry a country surgeon.\n\nBut the first day on which Mr. Gibson paid his visit to Lady Cumnor,\nhe began to think it possible that Mrs. Kirkpatrick was his \"hare.\"\nHe rode away with slack rein, thinking over what he knew of her,\nmore than about the prescriptions he should write, or the way he was\ngoing. He remembered her as a very pretty Miss Clare: the governess\nwho had the scarlet fever; that was in his wife's days, a long time\nago; he could hardly understand Mrs. Kirkpatrick's youthfulness\nof appearance when he thought how long. Then he had heard of her\nmarriage to a curate; and the next day (or so it seemed, he could not\nrecollect the exact duration of the interval), of his death. He knew,\nin some way, that she had been living ever since as a governess in\ndifferent families; but that she had always been a great favourite\nwith the family at the Towers, for whom, quite independent of their\nrank, he had a true respect. A year or two ago he had heard that she\nhad taken the good-will of a school at Ashcombe; a small town close\nto another property of Lord Cumnor's, in the same county. Ashcombe\nwas a larger estate than that near Hollingford, but the old\nManor-house there was not nearly so good a residence as the Towers;\nso it was given up to Mr. Preston, the land-agent for the Ashcombe\nproperty, just as Mr. Sheepshanks was for that at Hollingford.\nThere were a few rooms at the Manor-house reserved for the\noccasional visits of the family, otherwise Mr. Preston, a handsome\nyoung bachelor, had it all to himself. Mr. Gibson knew that Mrs.\nKirkpatrick had one child, a daughter, who must be much about the\nsame age as Molly. Of course she had very little, if any, property.\nBut he himself had lived carefully, and had a few thousands well\ninvested; besides which, his professional income was good, and\nincreasing rather than diminishing every year. By the time he had\narrived at this point in his consideration of the case, he was at the\nhouse of the next patient on his round, and he put away all thought\nof matrimony and Mrs. Kirkpatrick for the time. Once again, in the\ncourse of the day, he remembered with a certain pleasure that Molly\nhad told him some little details connected with her unlucky detention\nat the Towers five or six years ago, which had made him feel at the\ntime as if Mrs. Kirkpatrick had behaved very kindly to his little\ngirl. So there the matter rested for the present, as far as he was\nconcerned.\n\nLady Cumnor was out of health; but not so ill as she had been\nfancying herself during all those days when the people about her\ndared not send for the doctor. It was a great relief to her to have\nMr. Gibson to decide for her what she was to do; what to eat, drink,\navoid. Such decisions _ab extra_, are sometimes a wonderful relief\nto those whose habit it has been to decide, not only for themselves,\nbut for every one else; and occasionally the relaxation of the strain\nwhich a character for infallible wisdom brings with it, does much to\nrestore health. Mrs. Kirkpatrick thought in her secret soul that she\nhad never found it so easy to get on with Lady Cumnor; and Bradley\nand she had never done singing the praises of Mr. Gibson, \"who always\nmanaged my lady so beautifully.\"\n\nReports were duly sent up to my lord, but he and his daughters were\nstrictly forbidden to come down. Lady Cumnor wished to be weak\nand languid, and uncertain both in body and mind, without family\nobservation. It was a condition so different to anything she had\never been in before, that she was unconsciously afraid of losing her\nprestige, if she was seen in it. Sometimes she herself wrote the\ndaily bulletins; at other times she bade Clare do it, but she would\nalways see the letters. Any answers she received from her daughters\nshe used to read herself, occasionally imparting some of their\ncontents to \"that good Clare.\" But anybody might read my lord's\nletters. There was no great fear of family secrets oozing out in his\nsprawling lines of affection. But once Mrs. Kirkpatrick came upon a\nsentence in a letter from Lord Cumnor, which she was reading out loud\nto his wife, that caught her eye before she came to it, and if she\ncould have skipped it and kept it for private perusal, she would\ngladly have done so. My lady was too sharp for her, though. In her\nopinion \"Clare was a good creature, but not clever,\" the truth\nbeing that she was not always quick at resources, though tolerably\nunscrupulous in the use of them.\n\n\"Read on. What are you stopping for? There is no bad news, is there,\nabout Agnes?--Give me the letter.\"\n\nLady Cumnor read, half aloud,--\n\n\"'How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to help\non that affair, but I really think a little match-making would be a\nvery pleasant amusement now that you are shut up in the house; and I\ncannot conceive any marriage more suitable.'\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Lady Cumnor, laughing, \"it was awkward for you to come\nupon that, Clare: I don't wonder you stopped short. You gave me a\nterrible fright, though.\"\n\n\"Lord Cumnor is so fond of joking,\" said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, a little\nflurried, yet quite recognizing the truth of his last words,--\"I\ncannot conceive any marriage more suitable.\" She wondered what Lady\nCumnor thought of it. Lord Cumnor wrote as if there was really a\nchance. It was not an unpleasant idea; it brought a faint smile out\nupon her face, as she sat by Lady Cumnor, while the latter took her\nafternoon nap.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nA CRISIS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nMrs. Kirkpatrick had been reading aloud till Lady Cumnor fell asleep,\nthe book rested on her knee, just kept from falling by her hold. She\nwas looking out of the window, not seeing the trees in the park, nor\nthe glimpses of the hills beyond, but thinking how pleasant it would\nbe to have a husband once more;--some one who would work while she\nsate at her elegant ease in a prettily-furnished drawing-room; and\nshe was rapidly investing this imaginary breadwinner with the form\nand features of the country surgeon, when there was a slight tap\nat the door, and almost before she could rise, the object of her\nthoughts came in. She felt herself blush, and she was not displeased\nat the consciousness. She advanced to meet him, making a sign towards\nher sleeping ladyship.\n\n\"Very good,\" said he, in a low voice, casting a professional eye on\nthe slumbering figure; \"can I speak to you for a minute or two in the\nlibrary?\"\n\n\"Is he going to offer?\" thought she, with a sudden palpitation, and\na conviction of her willingness to accept a man whom an hour before\nshe had simply looked upon as one of the category of unmarried men to\nwhom matrimony was possible.\n\nHe was only going to make one or two medical inquiries; she found\nthat out very speedily, and considered the conversation as rather\nflat to her, though it might be instructive to him. She was not aware\nthat he finally made up his mind to propose, during the time that\nshe was speaking--answering his questions in many words, but he was\naccustomed to winnow the chaff from the corn; and her voice was so\nsoft, her accent so pleasant, that it struck him as particularly\nagreeable after the broad country accent he was perpetually hearing.\nThen the harmonious colours of her dress, and her slow and graceful\nmovements, had something of the same soothing effect upon his nerves\nthat a cat's purring has upon some people's. He began to think\nthat he should be fortunate if he could win her, for his own sake.\nYesterday he had looked upon her more as a possible stepmother\nfor Molly; to-day he thought more of her as a wife for himself.\nThe remembrance of Lord Cumnor's letter gave her a very becoming\nconsciousness; she wished to attract, and hoped that she was\nsucceeding. Still they only talked of the countess's state for some\ntime: then a lucky shower came on. Mr. Gibson did not care a jot for\nrain, but just now it gave him an excuse for lingering.\n\n\"It's very stormy weather,\" said he.\n\n\"Yes, very. My daughter writes me word, that for two days last week\nthe packet could not sail from Boulogne.\"\n\n\"Miss Kirkpatrick is at Boulogne, is she?\"\n\n\"Yes, poor girl; she is at school there, trying to perfect herself\nin the French language. But, Mr. Gibson, you must not call her Miss\nKirkpatrick. Cynthia remembers you with so much--affection, I may\nsay. She was your little patient when she had the measles here four\nyears ago, you know. Pray call her Cynthia; she would be quite hurt\nat such a formal name as Miss Kirkpatrick from you.\"\n\n\"Cynthia seems to me such an out-of-the-way name, only fit for\npoetry, not for daily use.\"\n\n\"It is mine,\" said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a plaintive tone of reproach.\n\"I was christened Hyacinth, and her poor father would have her called\nafter me. I'm sorry you don't like it.\"\n\nMr. Gibson did not know what to say. He was not quite prepared to\nplunge into the directly personal style. While he was hesitating, she\nwent on--\n\n\"Hyacinth Clare! Once upon a time I was quite proud of my pretty\nname; and other people thought it pretty, too.\"\n\n\"I've no doubt--\" Mr. Gibson began; and then stopped.\n\n\"Perhaps I did wrong in yielding to his wish, to have her called by\nsuch a romantic name. It may excite prejudice against her in some\npeople; and, poor child! she will have enough to struggle with. A\nyoung daughter is a great charge, Mr. Gibson, especially when there\nis only one parent to look after her.\"\n\n\"You are quite right,\" said he, recalled to the remembrance of Molly;\n\"though I should have thought that a girl who is so fortunate as to\nhave a mother could not feel the loss of her father so acutely as one\nwho is motherless must suffer from her deprivation.\"\n\n\"You are thinking of your own daughter. It was careless of me to say\nwhat I did. Dear child! how well I remember her sweet little face as\nshe lay sleeping on my bed. I suppose she is nearly grown-up now. She\nmust be near my Cynthia's age. How I should like to see her!\"\n\n\"I hope you will. I should like you to see her. I should like you to\nlove my poor little Molly,--to love her as your own--\" He swallowed\ndown something that rose in his throat, and was nearly choking him.\n\n\"Is he going to offer? _Is_ he?\" she wondered; and she began to\ntremble in the suspense before he next spoke.\n\n\"Could you love her as your daughter? Will you try? Will you give\nme the right of introducing you to her as her future mother; as my\nwife?\"\n\nThere! he had done it--whether it was wise or foolish--he had done\nit! but he was aware that the question as to its wisdom came into his\nmind the instant that the words were said past recall.\n\nShe hid her face in her hands.\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Gibson,\" she said; and then, a little to his surprise, and a\ngreat deal to her own, she burst into hysterical tears: it was such\na wonderful relief to feel that she need not struggle any more for a\nlivelihood.\n\n\"My dear--my dearest,\" said he, trying to soothe her with word and\ncaress; but, just at the moment, uncertain what name he ought to\nuse. After her sobbing had abated a little, she said herself, as if\nunderstanding his difficulty,--\n\n\"Call me Hyacinth--your own Hyacinth. I can't bear 'Clare,' it does\nso remind me of being a governess, and those days are all past now.\"\n\n\"Yes; but surely no one can have been more valued, more beloved than\nyou have been in this family at least.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! they have been very good. But still one has always had to\nremember one's position.\"\n\n\"We ought to tell Lady Cumnor,\" said he, thinking, perhaps, more of\nthe various duties which lay before him in consequence of the step he\nhad just taken, than of what his future bride was saying.\n\n\"You'll tell her, won't you?\" said she, looking up in his face with\nbeseeching eyes. \"I always like other people to tell her things, and\nthen I can see how she takes them.\"\n\n\"Certainly! I will do whatever you wish. Shall we go and see if she\nis awake now?\"\n\n\"No! I think not. I had better prepare her. You will come to-morrow,\nwon't you? and you will tell her then.\"\n\n\"Yes; that will be best. I ought to tell Molly first. She has the\nright to know. I do hope you and she will love each other dearly.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! I'm sure we shall. Then you'll come to-morrow and tell Lady\nCumnor? And I'll prepare her.\"\n\n\"I don't see what preparation is necessary; but you know best, my\ndear. When can we arrange for you and Molly to meet?\"\n\nJust then a servant came in, and the pair started apart.\n\n\"Her ladyship is awake, and wishes to see Mr. Gibson.\"\n\nThey both followed the man upstairs; Mrs. Kirkpatrick trying hard\nto look as if nothing had happened, for she particularly wished\n\"to prepare\" Lady Cumnor; that is to say, to give her version of Mr.\nGibson's extreme urgency, and her own coy unwillingness.\n\nBut Lady Cumnor had observant eyes in sickness as well as in health.\nShe had gone to sleep with the recollection of the passage in her\nhusband's letter full in her mind, and, perhaps, it gave a direction\nto her wakening ideas.\n\n\"I'm glad you're not gone, Mr. Gibson. I wanted to tell you-- What's\nthe matter with you both? What have you been saying to Clare? I'm\nsure something has happened.\"\n\nThere was nothing for it, in Mr. Gibson's opinion, but to make a\nclean breast of it, and tell her ladyship all. He turned round, and\ntook hold of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's hand, and said out straight, \"I have\nbeen asking Mrs. Kirkpatrick to be my wife, and to be a mother to my\nchild; and she has consented. I hardly know how to thank her enough\nin words.\"\n\n\"Umph! I don't see any objection. I daresay you'll be very happy.\nI'm very glad of it! Here! shake hands with me, both of you.\" Then\nlaughing a little, she added, \"It does not seem to me that any\nexertion has been required on my part.\"\n\nMr. Gibson looked perplexed at these words. Mrs. Kirkpatrick\nreddened.\n\n\"Did she not tell you? Oh, then, I must. It's too good a joke to be\nlost, especially as everything has ended so well. When Lord Cumnor's\nletter came this morning--this very morning--I gave it to Clare to\nread aloud to me, and I saw she suddenly came to a full stop, where\nno full stop could be, and I thought it was something about Agnes,\nso I took the letter and read--stay! I'll read the sentence to you.\nWhere's the letter, Clare? Oh! don't trouble yourself, here it is.\n'How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to help\non that affair, but I really think a little match-making would be a\nvery pleasant amusement, now that you are shut up in the house; and\nI cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.' You see, you have my\nlord's full approbation. But I must write, and tell him you have\nmanaged your own affairs without any interference of mine. Now we'll\njust have a little medical talk, Mr. Gibson, and then you and Clare\nshall finish your tête-à-tête.\"\n\nThey were neither of them quite as desirous of further conversation\ntogether as they had been before the passage out of Lord Cumnor's\nletter had been read aloud. Mr. Gibson tried not to think about it,\nfor he was aware that if he dwelt upon it, he might get to fancy all\nsorts of things, as to the conversation which had ended in his offer.\nBut Lady Cumnor was imperious now, as always.\n\n\"Come, no nonsense. I always made my girls go and have tête-à-têtes\nwith the men who were to be their husbands, whether they would or no:\nthere's a great deal to be talked over before every marriage, and you\ntwo are certainly old enough to be above affectation. Go away with\nyou.\"\n\nSo there was nothing for it but for them to return to the library;\nMrs. Kirkpatrick pouting a little, and Mr. Gibson feeling more like\nhis own cool, sarcastic self, by many degrees, than he had done when\nlast in that room.\n\nShe began, half crying,--\n\n\"I cannot tell what poor Kirkpatrick would say if he knew what I have\ndone. He did so dislike the notion of second marriages, poor fellow!\"\n\n\"Let us hope that he doesn't know, then; or that, if he does, he\nis wiser--I mean, that he sees how second marriages may be most\ndesirable and expedient in some cases.\"\n\nAltogether, this second tête-à-tête, done to command, was not so\nsatisfactory as the first; and Mr. Gibson was quite alive to the\nnecessity of proceeding on his round to see his patients before very\nmuch time had elapsed.\n\n\"We shall shake down into uniformity before long, I've no doubt,\"\nsaid he to himself, as he rode away. \"It's hardly to be expected that\nour thoughts should run in the same groove all at once. Nor should I\nlike it,\" he added. \"It would be very flat and stagnant to have only\nan echo of one's own opinions from one's wife. Heigho! I must tell\nMolly about it: dear little woman, I wonder how she'll take it? It's\ndone, in a great measure, for her good.\" And then he lost himself in\nrecapitulating Mrs. Kirkpatrick's good qualities, and the advantages\nto be gained to his daughter from the step he had just taken.\n\nIt was too late to go round by Hamley that afternoon. The Towers and\nthe Towers' round lay just in the opposite direction to Hamley. So it\nwas the next morning before Mr. Gibson arrived at the Hall, timing\nhis visit as well as he could so as to have half-an-hour's private\ntalk with Molly before Mrs. Hamley came down into the drawing-room.\nHe thought that his daughter would require sympathy after receiving\nthe intelligence he had to communicate; and he knew there was no one\nmore fit to give it than Mrs. Hamley.\n\nIt was a brilliantly hot summer's morning; men in their shirtsleeves\nwere in the fields getting in the early harvest of oats; as Mr.\nGibson rode slowly along, he could see them over the tall hedge-rows,\nand even hear the soothing measured sound of the fall of the long\nswathes, as they were mown. The labourers seemed too hot to talk; the\ndog, guarding their coats and cans, lay panting loudly on the other\nside of the elm, under which Mr. Gibson stopped for an instant to\nsurvey the scene, and gain a little delay before the interview that\nhe wished was well over. In another minute he had snapped at himself\nfor his weakness, and put spurs to his horse. He came up to the Hall\nat a good sharp trot; it was earlier than the usual time of his\nvisits, and no one was expecting him; all the stable-men were in\nthe fields, but that signified little to Mr. Gibson; he walked his\nhorse about for five minutes or so before taking him into the stable,\nand loosened his girths, examining him with perhaps unnecessary\nexactitude. He went into the house by a private door, and made his\nway into the drawing-room, half expecting, however, that Molly would\nbe in the garden. She had been there, but it was too hot and dazzling\nnow for her to remain out of doors, and she had come in by the open\nwindow of the drawing-room. Oppressed with the heat, she had fallen\nasleep in an easy-chair, her bonnet and open book upon her knee, one\narm hanging listlessly down. She looked very soft, and young, and\nchildlike; and a gush of love sprang into her father's heart as he\ngazed at her.\n\n\"Molly!\" said he, gently, taking the little brown hand that was\nhanging down, and holding it in his own. \"Molly!\"\n\nShe opened her eyes, that for one moment had no recognition in them.\nThen the light came brilliantly into them and she sprang up, and\nthrew her arms round his neck, exclaiming,--\n\n\"Oh, papa, my dear, dear papa! What made you come while I was asleep?\nI lose the pleasure of watching for you.\"\n\nMr. Gibson turned a little paler than he had been before. He still\nheld her hand, and drew her to a seat by him on a sofa, without\nspeaking. There was no need; she was chattering away.\n\n\"I was up so early! It is so charming to be out here in the fresh\nmorning air. I think that made me sleepy. But isn't it a gloriously\nhot day? I wonder if the Italian skies they talk about can be bluer\nthan that--that little bit you see just between the oaks--there!\"\n\nShe pulled her hand away, and used both it and the other to turn her\nfather's head, so that he should exactly see the very bit she meant.\nShe was rather struck by his unusual silence.\n\n\"Have you heard from Miss Eyre, papa? How are they all? And this\nfever that is about? Do you know, papa, I don't think you are looking\nwell? You want me at home to take care of you. How soon may I come\nhome?\"\n\n\"Don't I look well? That must be all your fancy, goosey. I feel\nuncommonly well; and I ought to look well, for-- I have a piece of\nnews for you, little woman.\" (He felt that he was doing his business\nvery awkwardly, but he was determined to plunge on.) \"Can you guess\nit?\"\n\n\"How should I?\" said she; but her tone was changed, and she was\nevidently uneasy, as with the presage of an instinct.\n\n\"Why, you see, my love,\" said he, again taking her hand, \"that you\nare in a very awkward position--a girl growing up in such a family\nas mine--young men--which was a piece of confounded stupidity on my\npart. And I am obliged to be away so much.\"\n\n\"But there is Miss Eyre,\" said she, sick with the strengthening\nindefinite presage of what was to come. \"Dear Miss Eyre, I want\nnothing but her and you.\"\n\n\"Still there are times like the present when Miss Eyre cannot be with\nyou; her home is not with us; she has other duties. I've been in\ngreat perplexity for some time; but at last I've taken a step which\nwill, I hope, make us both happier.\"\n\n\"You're going to be married again,\" said she, helping him out, with a\nquiet dry voice, and gently drawing her hand out of his.\n\n\"Yes. To Mrs. Kirkpatrick--you remember her? They call her Clare at\nthe Towers. You recollect how kind she was to you that day you were\nleft there?\"\n\nShe did not answer. She could not tell what words to use. She\nwas afraid of saying anything, lest the passion of anger,\ndislike, indignation--whatever it was that was boiling up in her\nbreast--should find vent in cries and screams, or worse, in raging\nwords that could never be forgotten. It was as if the piece of solid\nground on which she stood had broken from the shore, and she was\ndrifting out to the infinite sea alone.\n\nMr. Gibson saw that her silence was unnatural, and half-guessed at\nthe cause of it. But he knew that she must have time to reconcile\nherself to the idea, and still believed that it would be for her\neventual happiness. He had, besides, the relief of feeling that the\nsecret was told, the confidence made, which he had been dreading\nfor the last twenty-four hours. He went on recapitulating all the\nadvantages of the marriage; he knew them off by heart now.\n\n\"She's a very suitable age for me. I don't know how old she is\nexactly, but she must be nearly forty. I shouldn't have wished to\nmarry any one younger. She's highly respected by Lord and Lady Cumnor\nand their family, which is of itself a character. She has very\nagreeable and polished manners--of course, from the circles she has\nbeen thrown into--and you and I, goosey, are apt to be a little\nbrusque, or so; we must brush up our manners now.\"\n\nNo remark from her on this little bit of playfulness. He went on,--\n\n\"She has been accustomed to housekeeping--economical housekeeping,\ntoo--for of late years she has had a school at Ashcombe, and has had,\nof course, to arrange all things for a large family. And last, but\nnot least, she has a daughter--about your age, Molly--who, of course,\nwill come and live with us, and be a nice companion--a sister--for\nyou.\"\n\nStill she was silent. At length she said,--\n\n\"So I was sent out of the house that all this might be quietly\narranged in my absence?\"\n\nOut of the bitterness of her heart she spoke, but she was roused\nout of her assumed impassiveness by the effect produced. Her\nfather started up, and quickly left the room, saying something to\nhimself--what, she could not hear, though she ran after him, followed\nhim through dark stone passages, into the glare of the stable-yard,\ninto the stables--\n\n\"Oh, papa, papa--I'm not myself--I don't know what to say about this\nhateful--detestable--\"\n\nHe led his horse out. She did not know if he heard her words. Just as\nhe mounted, he turned round upon her with a grey grim face--\n\n\"I think it's better for both of us, for me to go away now. We\nmay say things difficult to forget. We are both much agitated. By\nto-morrow we shall be more composed; you will have thought it over,\nand have seen that the principal--one great motive, I mean--was your\ngood. You may tell Mrs. Hamley--I meant to have told her myself. I\nwill come again to-morrow. Good-by, Molly.\"\n\nFor many minutes after he had ridden away--long after the sound of\nhis horse's hoofs on the round stones of the paved lane, beyond the\nhome-meadows, had died away--Molly stood there, shading her eyes,\nand looking at the empty space of air in which his form had last\nappeared. Her very breath seemed suspended; only, two or three times,\nafter long intervals, she drew a miserable sigh, which was caught up\ninto a sob. She turned away at last, but could not go into the house,\ncould not tell Mrs. Hamley, could not forget how her father had\nlooked and spoken--and left her.\n\nShe went out through a side-door--it was the way by which the\ngardeners passed when they took the manure into the garden--and the\nwalk to which it led was concealed from sight as much as possible by\nshrubs and evergreens and over-arching trees. No one would know what\nbecame of her--and, with the ingratitude of misery, she added to\nherself, no one would care. Mrs. Hamley had her own husband, her own\nchildren, her close home interests--she was very good and kind, but\nthere was a bitter grief in Molly's heart, with which the stranger\ncould not intermeddle. She went quickly on to the bourne which she\nhad fixed for herself--a seat almost surrounded by the drooping\nleaves of a weeping-ash--a seat on the long broad terrace walk on\nthe other side of the wood, that overlooked the pleasant slope of\nthe meadows beyond. The walk had probably been made to command this\nsunny, peaceful landscape, with trees, and a church spire, two or\nthree red-tiled roofs of old cottages, and a purple bit of rising\nground in the distance; and at some previous date, when there might\nhave been a large family of Hamleys residing at the Hall, ladies\nin hoops, and gentlemen in bag-wigs with swords by their sides,\nmight have filled up the breadth of the terrace, as they sauntered,\nsmiling, along. But no one ever cared to saunter there now. It was a\ndeserted walk. The squire or his sons might cross it in passing to a\nlittle gate that led to the meadow beyond; but no one loitered there.\nMolly almost thought that no one knew of the hidden seat under the\nash-tree but herself; for there were not more gardeners employed upon\nthe grounds than were necessary to keep the kitchen-gardens and such\nof the ornamental part as was frequented by the family, or in sight\nof the house, in good order.\n\nWhen she had once got to the seat she broke out with suppressed\npassion of grief. She did not care to analyze the sources of her\ntears and sobs--her father was going to be married again--her father\nwas angry with her; she had done very wrong--he had gone away\ndispleased; she had lost his love; he was going to be married--away\nfrom her--away from his child--his little daughter--forgetting her\nown dear, dear mother. So she thought in a tumultuous kind of way,\nsobbing till she was wearied out, and had to gain strength by being\nquiet for a time, to break forth into her passion of tears afresh.\nShe had cast herself on the ground--that natural throne for violent\nsorrow--and leant up against the old moss-grown seat; sometimes\nburying her face in her hands; sometimes clasping them together, as\nif by the tight painful grasp of her fingers she could deaden mental\nsuffering.\n\nShe did not see Roger Hamley returning from the meadows, nor hear the\nclick of the little white gate. He had been out dredging in ponds and\nditches, and had his wet sling-net, with its imprisoned treasures of\nnastiness, over his shoulder. He was coming home to lunch, having\nalways a fine midday appetite, though he pretended to despise the\nmeal in theory. But he knew that his mother liked his companionship\nthen; she depended much upon her luncheon, and was seldom downstairs\nand visible to her family much before the time. So he overcame his\ntheory, for the sake of his mother, and had his reward in the hearty\nrelish with which he kept her company in eating.\n\nHe did not see Molly as he crossed the terrace-walk on his way\nhomewards. He had gone about twenty yards along the small wood-path\nat right angles to the terrace, when, looking among the grass and\nwild plants under the trees, he spied out one which was rare, one\nwhich he had been long wishing to find in flower, and saw it at last,\nwith those bright keen eyes of his. Down went his net, skilfully\ntwisted so as to retain its contents, while it lay amid the herbage,\nand he himself went with light and well-planted footsteps in search\nof the treasure. He was so great a lover of nature that, without any\nthought, but habitually, he always avoided treading unnecessarily on\nany plant; who knew what long-sought growth or insect might develop\nitself in that which now appeared but insignificant?\n\nHis steps led him in the direction of the ash-tree seat, much less\nscreened from observation on this side than on the terrace. He\nstopped; he saw a light-coloured dress on the ground--somebody\nhalf-lying on the seat, so still just then, he wondered if the\nperson, whoever it was, had fallen ill or fainted. He paused to\nwatch. In a minute or two the sobs broke out again--the words. It was\nMiss Gibson crying out in a broken voice,--\n\n\"Oh, papa, papa! if you would but come back!\"\n\nFor a minute or two he thought it would be kinder to leave her\nfancying herself unobserved; he had even made a retrograde step or\ntwo, on tip-toe; but then he heard the miserable sobbing again. It\nwas farther than his mother could walk, or else, be the sorrow what\nit would, she was the natural comforter of this girl, her visitor.\nHowever, whether it was right or wrong, delicate or obtrusive, when\nhe heard the sad voice talking again, in such tones of uncomforted,\nlonely misery, he turned back, and went to the green tent under the\nash-tree. She started up when he came thus close to her; she tried to\ncheck her sobs, and instinctively smoothed her wet tangled hair back\nwith her hands.\n\nHe looked down upon her with grave, kind sympathy, but he did not\nknow exactly what to say.\n\n\"Is it lunch-time?\" said she, trying to believe that he did not see\nthe traces of her tears and the disturbance of her features--that he\nhad not seen her lying, sobbing her heart out there.\n\n\"I don't know. I was going home to lunch. But--you must let me\nsay it--I couldn't go on when I saw your distress. Has anything\nhappened?--anything in which I can help you, I mean; for, of course,\nI've no right to make the inquiry, if it is any private sorrow, in\nwhich I can be of no use.\"\n\nShe had exhausted herself so much with crying, that she felt as if\nshe could neither stand nor walk just yet. She sate down on the seat,\nand sighed, and turned so pale, he thought she was going to faint.\n\n\"Wait a moment,\" said he,--quite unnecessarily, for she could not\nhave stirred,--and he was off like a shot to some spring of water\nthat he knew of in the wood, and in a minute or two he returned with\ncareful steps, bringing a little in a broad green leaf, turned into\nan impromptu cup. Little as it was, it did her good.\n\n\"Thank you!\" she said: \"I can walk back now, in a short time. Don't\nstop.\"\n\n\"You must let me,\" said he: \"my mother wouldn't like me to leave you\nto come home alone, while you are so faint.\"\n\nSo they remained in silence for a little while; he, breaking off and\nexamining one or two abnormal leaves of the ash-tree, partly from the\ncustom of his nature, partly to give her time to recover.\n\n\"Papa is going to be married again,\" said she, at length.\n\nShe could not have said why she told him this; an instant before she\nspoke, she had no intention of doing so. He dropped the leaf he held\nin his hand, turned round, and looked at her. Her poor wistful eyes\nwere filling with tears as they met his, with a dumb appeal for\nsympathy. Her look was much more eloquent than her words. There was\na momentary pause before he replied, and then it was more because he\nfelt that he must say something than that he was in any doubt as to\nthe answer to the question he asked.\n\n\"You are sorry for it?\"\n\nShe did not take her eyes away from his, as her quivering lips formed\nthe word \"Yes,\" though her voice made no sound. He was silent again\nnow; looking on the ground, kicking softly at a loose pebble with his\nfoot. His thoughts did not come readily to the surface in the shape\nof words; nor was he apt at giving comfort till he saw his way clear\nto the real source from which consolation must come. At last he\nspoke,--almost as if he was reasoning out the matter with himself.\n\n\"It seems as if there might be cases where--setting the question of\nlove entirely on one side--it must be almost a duty to find some one\nto be a substitute for the mother. . . I can believe,\" said he, in\na different tone of voice, and looking at Molly afresh, \"that this\nstep may be greatly for your father's happiness--it may relieve him\nfrom many cares, and may give him a pleasant companion.\"\n\n\"He had me. You don't know what we were to each other--at least, what\nhe was to me,\" she added, humbly.\n\n\"Still he must have thought it for the best, or he wouldn't have done\nit. He may have thought it the best for your sake even more than for\nhis own.\"\n\n\"That is what he tried to convince me of.\"\n\nRoger began kicking the pebble again. He had not got hold of the\nright end of the clue. Suddenly he looked up.\n\n\"I want to tell you of a girl I know. Her mother died when she was\nabout sixteen--the eldest of a large family. From that time--all\nthrough the bloom of her youth--she gave herself up to her father,\nfirst as his comforter, afterwards as his companion, friend,\nsecretary--anything you like. He was a man with a great deal of\nbusiness on hand, and often came home only to set to afresh to\npreparations for the next day's work. Harriet was always there, ready\nto help, to talk, or to be silent. It went on for eight or ten years\nin this way; and then her father married again,--a woman not many\nyears older than Harriet herself. Well--they are just the happiest\nset of people I know--you wouldn't have thought it likely, would\nyou?\"\n\nShe was listening, but she had no heart to say anything. Yet she was\ninterested in this little story of Harriet--a girl who had been so\nmuch to her father, more than Molly in this early youth of hers could\nhave been to Mr. Gibson. \"How was it?\" she sighed out at last.\n\n\"Harriet thought of her father's happiness before she thought of her\nown,\" Roger answered, with something of severe brevity. Molly needed\nthe bracing. She began to cry again a little.\n\n\"If it were for papa's happiness--\"\n\n\"He must believe that it is. Whatever you fancy, give him a chance.\nHe cannot have much comfort, I should think, if he sees you fretting\nor pining,--you who have been so much to him, as you say. The lady\nherself, too--if Harriet's stepmother had been a selfish woman, and\nbeen always clutching after the gratification of her own wishes; but\nshe was not: she was as anxious for Harriet to be happy as Harriet\nwas for her father--and your father's future wife may be another of\nthe same kind, though such people are rare.\"\n\n\"I don't think she is, though,\" murmured Molly, a waft of\nrecollection bringing to her mind the details of her day at the\nTowers long ago.\n\nRoger did not want to hear Molly's reasons for this doubting speech.\nHe felt as if he had no right to hear more of Mr. Gibson's family\nlife, past, present, or to come, than was absolutely necessary for\nhim, in order that he might comfort and help the crying girl, whom he\nhad come upon so unexpectedly. And besides, he wanted to go home, and\nbe with his mother at lunch-time. Yet he could not leave her alone.\n\n\"It is right to hope for the best about everybody, and not to expect\nthe worst. This sounds like a truism, but it has comforted me before\nnow, and some day you'll find it useful. One has always to try to\nthink more of others than of oneself, and it is best not to prejudge\npeople on the bad side. My sermons aren't long, are they? Have they\ngiven you an appetite for lunch? Sermons always make me hungry, I\nknow.\"\n\nHe appeared to be waiting for her to get up and come along with him,\nas indeed he was. But he meant her to perceive that he should not\nleave her; so she rose up languidly, too languid to say how much she\nshould prefer being left alone, if he would only go away without her.\nShe was very weak, and stumbled over the straggling root of a tree\nthat projected across the path. He, watchful though silent, saw\nthis stumble, and putting out his hand held her up from falling. He\nstill held her hand when the occasion was past; this little physical\nfailure impressed on his heart how young and helpless she was, and\nhe yearned to her, remembering the passion of sorrow in which he had\nfound her, and longing to be of some little tender bit of comfort to\nher, before they parted--before their tête-à-tête walk was merged in\nthe general familiarity of the household life. Yet he did not know\nwhat to say.\n\n\"You will have thought me hard,\" he burst out at length, as they\nwere nearing the drawing-room windows and the garden-door. \"I\nnever can manage to express what I feel--somehow I always fall to\nphilosophizing--but I am sorry for you. Yes, I am; it's beyond my\npower to help you, as far as altering facts goes, but I can feel for\nyou, in a way which it's best not to talk about, for it can do no\ngood. Remember how sorry I am for you! I shall often be thinking of\nyou, though I daresay it's best not to talk about it again.\"\n\nShe said, \"I know you are sorry,\" under her breath, and then she\nbroke away, and ran indoors, and upstairs to the solitude of her own\nroom. He went straight to his mother, who was sitting before the\nuntasted luncheon, as much annoyed by the mysterious unpunctuality\nof her visitor as she was capable of being with anything; for she\nhad heard that Mr. Gibson had been, and was gone, and she could not\ndiscover if he had left any message for her; and her anxiety about\nher own health, which some people esteemed hypochondriacal, always\nmade her particularly craving for the wisdom which might fall from\nher doctor's lips.\n\n\"Where have you been, Roger? Where is Molly?--Miss Gibson, I mean,\"\nfor she was careful to keep up a barrier of forms between the young\nman and young woman who were thrown together in the same household.\n\n\"I've been out dredging. (By the way, I left my net on the terrace\nwalk.) I found Miss Gibson sitting there, crying as if her heart\nwould break. Her father is going to be married again.\"\n\n\"Married again! You don't say so.\"\n\n\"Yes, he is; and she takes it very hardly, poor girl. Mother, I think\nif you could send some one to her with a glass of wine, a cup of tea,\nor something of that sort--she was very nearly fainting--\"\n\n\"I'll go to her myself, poor child,\" said Mrs. Hamley, rising.\n\n\"Indeed you must not,\" said he, laying his hand upon her arm. \"We\nhave kept you waiting already too long; you are looking quite pale.\nHammond can take it,\" he continued, ringing the bell. She sate down\nagain, almost stunned with surprise.\n\n\"Whom is he going to marry?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I didn't ask, and she didn't tell me.\"\n\n\"That's so like a man. Why, half the character of the affair lies in\nthe question of who it is that he is going to marry.\"\n\n\"I daresay I ought to have asked. But somehow I'm not a good one\non such occasions. I was as sorry as could be for her, and yet I\ncouldn't tell what to say.\"\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"I gave her the best advice in my power.\"\n\n\"Advice! you ought to have comforted her. Poor little Molly!\"\n\n\"I think that if advice is good it's the best comfort.\"\n\n\"That depends on what you mean by advice. Hush! here she is.\"\n\nTo their surprise, Molly came in, trying hard to look as usual. She\nhad bathed her eyes, and arranged her hair; and was making a great\nstruggle to keep from crying, and to bring her voice into order.\nShe was unwilling to distress Mrs. Hamley by the sight of pain and\nsuffering. She did not know that she was following Roger's injunction\nto think more of others than of herself--but so she was. Mrs. Hamley\nwas not sure if it was wise in her to begin on the piece of news she\nhad just heard from her son; but she was too full of it herself to\ntalk of anything else. \"So I hear your father is going to be married,\nmy dear? May I ask whom it is to?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Kirkpatrick. I think she was governess a long time ago at the\nCountess of Cumnor's. She stays with them a great deal, and they call\nher Clare, and I believe they are very fond of her.\" Molly tried to\nspeak of her future stepmother in the most favourable manner she knew\nhow.\n\n\"I think I've heard of her. Then she's not very young? That's as it\nshould be. A widow too. Has she any family?\"\n\n\"One girl, I believe. But I know so little about her!\"\n\nMolly was very near crying again.\n\n\"Never mind, my dear. That will all come in good time. Roger, you've\nhardly eaten anything; where are you going?\"\n\n\"To fetch my dredging-net. It's full of things I don't want to lose.\nBesides, I never eat much, as a general thing.\" The truth was partly\ntold, not all. He thought he had better leave the other two alone.\nHis mother had such sweet power of sympathy, that she would draw the\nsting out of the girl's heart when she had her alone. As soon as he\nwas gone, Molly lifted up her poor swelled eyes, and, looking at Mrs.\nHamley, she said,--\"He was so good to me. I mean to try and remember\nall he said.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear it, love; very glad. From what he told me, I was\nafraid he had been giving you a little lecture. He has a good heart,\nbut he isn't so tender in his manner as Osborne. Roger is a little\nrough sometimes.\"\n\n\"Then I like roughness. It did me good. It made me feel how\nbadly--oh, Mrs. Hamley, I did behave so badly to papa this morning!\"\n\nShe rose up and threw herself into Mrs. Hamley's arms, and sobbed\nupon her breast. Her sorrow was not now for the fact that her father\nwas going to be married again, but for her own ill-behaviour.\n\nIf Roger was not tender in words, he was in deeds. Unreasonable and\npossibly exaggerated as Molly's grief had appeared to him, it was\nreal suffering to her; and he took some pains to lighten it, in his\nown way, which was characteristic enough. That evening he adjusted\nhis microscope, and put the treasures he had collected in his\nmorning's ramble on a little table; and then he asked his mother to\ncome and admire. Of course Molly came too, and this was what he had\nintended. He tried to interest her in his pursuit, cherished her\nfirst little morsel of curiosity, and nursed it into a very proper\ndesire for further information. Then he brought out books on the\nsubject, and translated the slightly pompous and technical language\ninto homely every-day speech. Molly had come down to dinner,\nwondering how the long hours till bedtime would ever pass away:\nhours during which she must not speak on the one thing that would\nbe occupying her mind to the exclusion of all others; for she was\nafraid that already she had wearied Mrs. Hamley with it during their\nafternoon tête-à-tête. But prayers and bedtime came long before she\nexpected; she had been refreshed by a new current of thought, and she\nwas very thankful to Roger. And now there was to-morrow to come, and\na confession of penitence to be made to her father.\n\nBut Mr. Gibson did not want speech or words. He was not fond of\nexpressions of feeling at any time, and perhaps, too, he felt that\nthe less said the better on a subject about which it was evident that\nhis daughter and he were not thoroughly and impulsively in harmony.\nHe read her repentance in her eyes; he saw how much she had suffered;\nand he had a sharp pang at his heart in consequence. And he stopped\nher from speaking out her regret at her behaviour the day before, by\na \"There, there, that will do. I know all you want to say. I know my\nlittle Molly--my silly little goosey--better than she knows herself.\nI've brought you an invitation. Lady Cumnor wants you to go and spend\nnext Thursday at the Towers!\"\n\n\"Do you wish me to go?\" said she, her heart sinking.\n\n\"I wish you and Hyacinth to become better acquainted--to learn to\nlove each other.\"\n\n\"Hyacinth!\" said Molly, entirely bewildered.\n\n\"Yes; Hyacinth! It's the silliest name I ever heard of; but it's\nhers, and I must call her by it. I can't bear Clare, which is\nwhat my lady and all the family at the Towers call her; and 'Mrs.\nKirkpatrick' is formal and nonsensical too, as she'll change her name\nso soon.\"\n\n\"When, papa?\" asked Molly, feeling as if she were living in a\nstrange, unknown world.\n\n\"Not till after Michaelmas.\" And then, continuing on his own\nthoughts, he added, \"And the worst is, she's gone and perpetuated her\nown affected name by having her daughter called after her. Cynthia!\nOne thinks of the moon, and the man in the moon with his bundle of\nfaggots. I'm thankful you're plain Molly, child.\"\n\n\"How old is she--Cynthia, I mean?\"\n\n\"Ay, get accustomed to the name. I should think Cynthia Kirkpatrick\nwas about as old as you are. She's at school in France, picking up\nairs and graces. She's to come home for the wedding, so you'll be\nable to get acquainted with her then; though, I think, she's to go\nback again for another half-year or so.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nMAKING FRIENDSHIP.\n\n\nMr. Gibson believed that Cynthia Kirkpatrick was to return to England\nto be present at her mother's wedding; but Mrs. Kirkpatrick had\nno such intention. She was not what is commonly called a woman\nof determination; but somehow what she disliked she avoided, and\nwhat she liked she tried to do, or to have. So although in the\nconversation, which she had already led to, as to the when and the\nhow she was to be married, she had listened quietly to Mr. Gibson's\nproposal that Molly and Cynthia should be the two bridesmaids, still\nshe had felt how disagreeable it would be to her to have her young\ndaughter flashing out her beauty by the side of the faded bride, her\nmother; and as the further arrangements for the wedding became more\ndefinite, she saw further reasons in her own mind for Cynthia's\nremaining quietly at her school at Boulogne.\n\nMrs. Kirkpatrick had gone to bed that first night of her engagement\nto Mr. Gibson, fully anticipating a speedy marriage. She looked to\nit as a release from the thraldom of keeping school--keeping an\nunprofitable school, with barely pupils enough to pay for house\nrent and taxes, food, washing, and the requisite masters. She saw\nno reason for ever going back to Ashcombe, except to wind up her\naffairs, and to pack up her clothes. She hoped that Mr. Gibson's\nardour would be such that he would press on the marriage, and urge\nher never to resume her school drudgery, but to relinquish it now and\nfor ever. She even made up a very pretty, very passionate speech for\nhim in her own mind; quite sufficiently strong to prevail upon her,\nand to overthrow the scruples which she felt she ought to have, at\ntelling the parents of her pupils that she did not intend to resume\nschool, and that they must find another place of education for their\ndaughters, in the last week but one of the midsummer holidays.\n\nIt was rather like a douche of cold water on Mrs. Kirkpatrick's\nplans, when the next morning at breakfast Lady Cumnor began to decide\nupon the arrangements and duties of the two middle-aged lovers.\n\n\"Of course you can't give up your school all at once, Clare. The\nwedding can't be before Christmas, but that will do very well. We\nshall all be down at the Towers; and it will be a nice amusement for\nthe children to go over to Ashcombe, and see you married.\"\n\n\"I think--I am afraid--I don't believe Mr. Gibson will like waiting\nso long; men are so impatient under these circumstances.\"\n\n\"Oh, nonsense! Lord Cumnor has recommended you to his tenants, and\nI'm sure he wouldn't like them to be put to any inconvenience. Mr.\nGibson will see that in a moment. He's a man of sense, or else he\nwouldn't be our family doctor. Now, what are you going to do about\nyour little girl? Have you fixed yet?\"\n\n\"No. Yesterday there seemed so little time, and when one is agitated\nit is so difficult to think of anything. Cynthia is nearly eighteen,\nold enough to go out as a governess, if he wishes it, but I don't\nthink he will. He is so generous and kind.\"\n\n\"Well! I must give you time to settle some of your affairs to-day.\nDon't waste it in sentiment, you're too old for that. Come to a clear\nunderstanding with each other; it will be for your happiness in the\nlong run.\"\n\nSo they did come to a clear understanding about one or two things.\nTo Mrs. Kirkpatrick's dismay, she found that Mr. Gibson had no more\nidea than Lady Cumnor of her breaking faith with the parents of her\npupils. Though he really was at a serious loss as to what was to\nbecome of Molly till she could be under the protection of his new\nwife at her own home, and though his domestic worries teased him more\nand more every day, he was too honourable to think of persuading Mrs.\nKirkpatrick to give up school a week sooner than was right for his\nsake. He did not even perceive how easy the task of persuasion would\nbe; with all her winning wiles she could scarcely lead him to feel\nimpatience for the wedding to take place at Michaelmas.\n\n\"I can hardly tell you what a comfort and relief it will be to me,\nHyacinth, when you are once my wife--the mistress of my home--poor\nlittle Molly's mother and protector; but I wouldn't interfere with\nyour previous engagements for the world. It wouldn't be right.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my own love. How good you are! So many men would think\nonly of their own wishes and interests! I'm sure the parents of\nmy dear pupils will admire you--will be quite surprised at your\nconsideration for their interests.\"\n\n\"Don't tell them, then. I hate being admired. Why shouldn't you say\nit is your wish to keep on your school till they've had time to look\nout for another?\"\n\n\"Because it isn't,\" said she, daring all. \"I long to be making you\nhappy; I want to make your home a place of rest and comfort to you;\nand I do so wish to cherish your sweet Molly, as I hope to do, when\nI come to be her mother. I can't take virtue to myself which doesn't\nbelong to me. If I have to speak for myself, I shall say, 'Good\npeople, find a school for your daughters by Michaelmas,--for after\nthat time I must go and make the happiness of others.' I can't bear\nto think of your long rides in November--coming home wet at night\nwith no one to take care of you. Oh! if you leave it to me, I shall\nadvise the parents to take their daughters away from the care of one\nwhose heart will be absent. Though I couldn't consent to any time\nbefore Michaelmas--that wouldn't be fair or right, and I'm sure you\nwouldn't urge me--you are too good.\"\n\n\"Well, if you think that they will consider we have acted uprightly\nby them, let it be Michaelmas with all my heart. What does Lady\nCumnor say?\"\n\n\"Oh! I told her I was afraid you wouldn't like waiting, because of\nyour difficulties with your servants, and because of Molly--it would\nbe so desirable to enter on the new relationship with her as soon as\npossible.\"\n\n\"To be sure; so it would. Poor child! I'm afraid the intelligence of\nmy engagement has rather startled her.\"\n\n\"Cynthia will feel it deeply, too,\" said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, unwilling\nto let her daughter be behind Mr. Gibson's in sensibility and\naffection.\n\n\"We will have her over to the wedding! She and Molly shall be\nbridesmaids,\" said Mr. Gibson, in the unguarded warmth of his heart.\n\nThis plan did not quite suit Mrs. Kirkpatrick: but she thought it\nbest not to oppose it, until she had a presentable excuse to give,\nand perhaps also some reason would naturally arise out of future\ncircumstances; so at this time she only smiled, and softly pressed\nthe hand she held in hers.\n\nIt is a question whether Mrs. Kirkpatrick or Molly wished the most\nfor the day to be over which they were to spend together at the\nTowers. Mrs. Kirkpatrick was rather weary of girls as a class. All\nthe trials of her life were connected with girls in some way. She was\nvery young when she first became a governess, and had been worsted\nin her struggles with her pupils, in the first place she ever went\nto. Her elegance of appearance and manner, and her accomplishments,\nmore than her character and acquirements, had rendered it easier\nfor her than for most to obtain good \"situations;\" and she had been\nabsolutely petted in some; but still she was constantly encountering\nnaughty or stubborn, or over-conscientious, or severe-judging, or\ncurious and observant girls. And again, before Cynthia was born, she\nhad longed for a boy, thinking it possible that if some three or\nfour intervening relations died, he might come to be a baronet; and\ninstead of a son, lo and behold it was a daughter! Nevertheless, with\nall her dislike to girls in the abstract as \"the plagues of her life\"\n(and her aversion was not diminished by the fact of her having kept\na school for \"young ladies\" at Ashcombe), she really meant to be as\nkind as she could be to her new step-daughter, whom she remembered\nprincipally as a black-haired, sleepy child, in whose eyes she had\nread admiration of herself. Mrs. Kirkpatrick accepted Mr. Gibson\nprincipally because she was tired of the struggle of earning her own\nlivelihood; but she liked him personally--nay, she even loved him in\nher torpid way, and she intended to be good to his daughter, though\nshe felt as if it would have been easier for her to have been good to\nhis son.\n\nMolly was bracing herself up in her way too. \"I will be like Harriet.\nI will think of others. I won't think of myself,\" she kept repeating\nall the way to the Towers. But there was no selfishness in wishing\nthat the day was come to an end, and that she did very heartily. Mrs.\nHamley sent her thither in the carriage, which was to wait and bring\nher back at night. Mrs. Hamley wanted Molly to make a favourable\nimpression, and she sent for her to come and show herself before she\nset out.\n\n\"Don't put on your silk gown--your white muslin will look the nicest,\nmy dear.\"\n\n\"Not my silk? it is quite new! I had it to come here.\"\n\n\"Still, I think your white muslin suits you the best.\" \"Anything but\nthat horrid plaid silk\" was the thought in Mrs. Hamley's mind; and,\nthanks to her, Molly set off for the Towers, looking a little quaint,\nit is true, but thoroughly lady-like, if she was old-fashioned. Her\nfather was to meet her there; but he had been detained, and she had\nto face Mrs. Kirkpatrick by herself, the recollection of her last\nday of misery at the Towers fresh in her mind as if it had been\nyesterday. Mrs. Kirkpatrick was as caressing as could be. She held\nMolly's hand in hers, as they sate together in the library, after the\nfirst salutations were over. She kept stroking it from time to time,\nand purring out inarticulate sounds of loving satisfaction, as she\ngazed in the blushing face.\n\n\n[Illustration: THE NEW MAMMA.]\n\n\n\"What eyes! so like your dear father's! How we shall love each\nother--shan't we, darling? For his sake!\"\n\n\"I'll try,\" said Molly, bravely; and then she could not finish her\nsentence.\n\n\"And you've just got the same beautiful black curling hair!\" said\nMrs. Kirkpatrick, softly lifting one of Molly's curls from off her\nwhite temple.\n\n\"Papa's hair is growing grey,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Is it? I never see it. I never shall see it. He will always be to me\nthe handsomest of men.\"\n\nMr. Gibson was really a very handsome man, and Molly was pleased with\nthe compliment; but she could not help saying,--\n\n\"Still he will grow old, and his hair will grow grey. I think he will\nbe just as handsome, but it won't be as a young man.\"\n\n\"Ah! that's just it, love. He'll always be handsome; some people\nalways are. And he is so fond of you, dear.\" Molly's colour flashed\ninto her face. She did not want an assurance of her own father's love\nfrom this strange woman. She could not help being angry; all she\ncould do was to keep silent. \"You don't know how he speaks of you;\n'his little treasure,' as he calls you. I'm almost jealous\nsometimes.\"\n\nMolly took her hand away, and her heart began to harden; these\nspeeches were so discordant to her. But she set her teeth together,\nand \"tried to be good.\"\n\n\"We must make him so happy. I'm afraid he has had a great deal to\nannoy him at home; but we will do away with all that now. You must\ntell me,\" seeing the cloud in Molly's eyes, \"what he likes and\ndislikes, for of course you will know.\"\n\nMolly's face cleared a little; of course she did know. She had not\nwatched and loved him so long without believing that she understood\nhim better than any one else: though how he had come to like Mrs.\nKirkpatrick enough to wish to marry her, was an unsolved problem that\nshe unconsciously put aside as inexplicable. Mrs. Kirkpatrick went\non,--\"All men have their fancies and antipathies, even the wisest.\nI have known some gentlemen annoyed beyond measure by the merest\ntrifles; leaving a door open, or spilling tea in their saucers, or\na shawl crookedly put on. Why,\" continued she, lowering her voice,\n\"I know of a house to which Lord Hollingford will never be asked\nagain because he didn't wipe his shoes on both the mats in the hall!\nNow you must tell me what your dear father dislikes most in these\nfanciful ways, and I shall take care to avoid it. You must be my\nlittle friend and helper in pleasing him. It will be such a pleasure\nto me to attend to his slightest fancies. About my dress, too--what\ncolours does he like best? I want to do everything in my power with a\nview to his approval.\"\n\nMolly was gratified by all this, and began to think that really,\nafter all, perhaps her father had done well for himself; and that\nif she could help towards his new happiness, she ought to do it. So\nshe tried very conscientiously to think over Mr. Gibson's wishes and\nways; to ponder over what annoyed him the most in his household.\n\n\"I think,\" said she, \"papa isn't particular about many things; but I\nthink our not having the dinner quite punctual--quite ready for him\nwhen he comes in, fidgets him more than anything. You see, he has\noften had a long ride, and there is another long ride to come, and he\nhas only half-an-hour--sometimes only a quarter--to eat his dinner\nin.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my own love. Punctuality! Yes; it's a great thing in a\nhousehold. It's what I've had to enforce with my young ladies at\nAshcombe. No wonder poor dear Mr. Gibson has been displeased at his\ndinner not being ready, and he so hard-worked!\"\n\n\"Papa doesn't care what he has, if it's only ready. He would take\nbread-and-cheese, if cook would only send it in instead of dinner.\"\n\n\"Bread-and-cheese! Does Mr. Gibson eat cheese?\"\n\n\"Yes; he's very fond of it,\" said Molly, innocently. \"I've known\nhim eat toasted cheese when he has been too tired to fancy anything\nelse.\"\n\n\"Oh! but, my dear, we must change all that. I shouldn't like to\nthink of your father eating cheese; it's such a strong-smelling,\ncoarse kind of thing. We must get him a cook who can toss him up an\nomelette, or something elegant. Cheese is only fit for the kitchen.\"\n\n\"Papa is very fond of it,\" persevered Molly.\n\n\"Oh! but we will cure him of that. I couldn't bear the smell of\ncheese; and I'm sure he would be sorry to annoy me.\"\n\nMolly was silent; it did not do, she found, to be too minute in\ntelling about her father's likes or dislikes. She had better leave\nthem for Mrs. Kirkpatrick to find out for herself. It was an awkward\npause; each was trying to find something agreeable to say. Molly\nspoke at length. \"Please! I should so like to know something about\nCynthia--your daughter.\"\n\n\"Yes, call her Cynthia. It's a pretty name, isn't it? Cynthia\nKirkpatrick. Not so pretty, though, as my old name, Hyacinth Clare.\nPeople used to say it suited me so well. I must show you an acrostic\nthat a gentleman--he was a lieutenant in the 53rd--made upon it. Oh!\nwe shall have a great deal to say to each other, I foresee!\"\n\n\"But about Cynthia?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! about dear Cynthia. What do you want to know, my dear?\"\n\n\"Papa said she was to live with us! When will she come?\"\n\n\"Oh, was it not sweet of your kind father? I thought of nothing\nelse but Cynthia's going out as a governess when she had completed\nher education; she has been brought up for it, and has had great\nadvantages. But good dear Mr. Gibson wouldn't hear of it. He said\nyesterday that she must come and live with us when she left school.\"\n\n\"When will she leave school?\"\n\n\"She went for two years. I don't think I must let her leave before\nnext summer. She teaches English as well as learning French. Next\nsummer she shall come home, and then shan't we be a happy little\nquartette?\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" said Molly. \"But she is to come to the wedding, isn't\nshe?\" she went on timidly, not knowing how far Mrs. Kirkpatrick would\nlike the allusion to her marriage.\n\n\"Your father has begged for her to come; but we must think about it a\nlittle more before quite fixing it. The journey is a great expense!\"\n\n\"Is she like you? I do so want to see her.\"\n\n\"She is very handsome, people say. In the bright-coloured\nstyle,--perhaps something like what I was. But I like the dark-haired\nforeign kind of beauty best--just now,\" touching Molly's hair, and\nlooking at her with an expression of sentimental remembrance.\n\n\"Does Cynthia--is she very clever and accomplished?\" asked Molly, a\nlittle afraid lest the answer should remove Miss Kirkpatrick at too\ngreat a distance from her.\n\n\"She ought to be; I've paid ever so much money to have her taught by\nthe best masters. But you will see her before long, and I'm afraid we\nmust go now to Lady Cumnor. It has been very charming having you all\nto myself, but I know Lady Cumnor will be expecting us now, and she\nwas very curious to see you,--my future daughter, as she calls you.\"\n\nMolly followed Mrs. Kirkpatrick into the morning-room, where Lady\nCumnor was sitting--a little annoyed, because, having completed her\ntoilette earlier than usual, Clare had not been aware by instinct\nof the fact, and so had not brought Molly Gibson for inspection a\nquarter of an hour before. Every small occurrence is an event in\nthe day of a convalescent invalid, and a little while ago Molly\nwould have met with patronizing appreciation, where now she had to\nencounter criticism. Of Lady Cumnor's character as an individual she\nknew nothing; she only knew she was going to see and be seen by a\nlive countess; nay, more, by \"_the_ countess\" of Hollingford.\n\nMrs. Kirkpatrick led her into Lady Cumnor's presence by the hand, and\nin presenting her, said,--\"My dear little daughter, Lady Cumnor!\"\n\n\"Now, Clare, don't let me have nonsense. She is not your daughter\nyet, and may never be,--I believe that one-third of the engagements\nI have heard of, have never come to marriages. Miss Gibson, I am very\nglad to see you, for your father's sake; when I know you better, I\nhope it will be for your own.\"\n\nMolly very heartily hoped that she might never be known any better\nby the stern-looking lady who sate so upright in the easy chair,\nprepared for lounging, and which therefore gave all the more effect\nto the stiff attitude. Lady Cumnor luckily took Molly's silence for\nacquiescent humility, and went on speaking after a further little\npause of inspection.\n\n\"Yes, yes, I like her looks, Clare. You may make something of her.\nIt will be a great advantage to you, my dear, to have a lady who has\ntrained up several young people of quality always about you just at\nthe time when you are growing up. I'll tell you what, Clare!\"--a\nsudden thought striking her,--\"you and she must become better\nacquainted--you know nothing of each other at present; you are not\nto be married till Christmas, and what could be better than that\nshe should go back with you to Ashcombe! She would be with you\nconstantly, and have the advantage of the companionship of your young\npeople, which would be a good thing for an only child! It's a capital\nplan; I'm very glad I thought of it!\"\n\nNow it would be difficult to say which of Lady Cumnor's two hearers\nwas the most dismayed at the idea which had taken possession of\nher. Mrs. Kirkpatrick had no fancy for being encumbered with a\nstep-daughter before her time. If Molly came to be an inmate of her\nhouse, farewell to many little background economies, and a still\nmore serious farewell to many little indulgences, that were innocent\nenough in themselves, but which Mrs. Kirkpatrick's former life\nhad caused her to look upon as sins to be concealed: the dirty\ndog's-eared delightful novel from the Ashcombe circulating library,\nthe leaves of which she turned over with a pair of scissors; the\nlounging-chair which she had for use at her own home, straight and\nupright as she sate now in Lady Cumnor's presence; the dainty morsel,\nsavoury and small, to which she treated herself for her own solitary\nsupper,--all these and many other similarly pleasant things would\nhave to be foregone if Molly came to be her pupil, parlour-boarder,\nor visitor, as Lady Cumnor was planning. One--two things Clare was\ninstinctively resolved upon: to be married at Michaelmas, and not\nto have Molly at Ashcombe. But she smiled as sweetly as if the plan\nproposed was the most charming project in the world, while all the\ntime her poor brains were beating about in every bush for the reasons\nor excuses of which she should make use at some future time. Molly,\nhowever, saved her all this trouble. It was a question which of the\nthree was the most surprised by the words which burst out of her\nlips. She did not mean to speak, but her heart was very full, and\nalmost before she was aware of her thought she heard herself\nsaying,--\n\n\"I don't think it would be nice at all. I mean, my lady, that I\nshould dislike it very much; it would be taking me away from papa\njust these very few last months. I will like you,\" she went on,\nher eyes full of tears; and, turning to Mrs. Kirkpatrick, she put\nher hand into her future stepmother's with the prettiest and most\ntrustful action. \"I will try hard to love you, and to do all I can\nto make you happy; but you must not take me away from papa just this\nvery last bit of time that I shall have him.\"\n\nMrs. Kirkpatrick fondled the hand thus placed in hers, and was\ngrateful to the girl for her outspoken opposition to Lady Cumnor's\nplan. Clare was, however, exceedingly unwilling to back up Molly\nby any words of her own until Lady Cumnor had spoken and given the\ncue. But there was something in Molly's little speech, or in her\nstraightforward manner, that amused instead of irritating Lady Cumnor\nin her present mood. Perhaps she was tired of the silkiness with\nwhich she had been shut up for so many days.\n\nShe put up her glasses, and looked at them both before speaking. Then\nshe said--\"Upon my word, young lady! Why, Clare, you've got your work\nbefore you! Not but what there is a good deal of truth in what she\nsays. It must be very disagreeable to a girl of her age to have a\nstepmother coming in between her father and herself, whatever may be\nthe advantages to her in the long run.\"\n\nMolly almost felt as if she could make a friend of the stiff old\ncountess, for her clearness of sight as to the plan proposed being\na trial; but she was afraid, in her new-born desire of thinking for\nothers, of Mrs. Kirkpatrick being hurt. She need not have feared as\nfar as outward signs went, for the smile was still on that lady's\npretty rosy lips, and the soft fondling of her hand never stopped.\nLady Cumnor was more interested in Molly the more she looked at her;\nand her gaze was pretty steady through her gold-rimmed eye-glasses.\nShe began a sort of catechism; a string of very straightforward\nquestions, such as any lady under the rank of countess might have\nscrupled to ask, but which were not unkindly meant.\n\n\"You are sixteen, are you not?\"\n\n\"No; I am seventeen. My birthday was three weeks ago.\"\n\n\"Very much the same thing, I should think. Have you ever been to\nschool?\"\n\n\"No, never! Miss Eyre has taught me everything I know.\"\n\n\"Umph! Miss Eyre was your governess, I suppose? I should not have\nthought your father could have afforded to keep a governess. But of\ncourse he must know his own affairs best.\"\n\n\"Certainly, my lady,\" replied Molly, a little touchy as to any\nreflections on her father's wisdom.\n\n\"You say 'certainly!' as if it was a matter of course that every\none should know their own affairs best. You are very young, Miss\nGibson--very. You'll know better before you come to my age. And I\nsuppose you've been taught music, and the use of globes, and French,\nand all the usual accomplishments, since you have had a governess? I\nnever heard of such nonsense!\" she went on, lashing herself up. \"An\nonly daughter! If there had been half-a-dozen, there might have been\nsome sense in it.\"\n\nMolly did not speak, but it was by a strong effort that she kept\nsilence. Mrs. Kirkpatrick fondled her hand more perseveringly than\never, hoping thus to express a sufficient amount of sympathy to\nprevent her from saying anything injudicious. But the caress had\nbecome wearisome to Molly, and only irritated her nerves. She took\nher hand out of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, with a slight manifestation of\nimpatience.\n\nIt was, perhaps, fortunate for the general peace that just at this\nmoment Mr. Gibson was announced. It is odd enough to see how the\nentrance of a person of the opposite sex into an assemblage of either\nmen or women calms down the little discordances and the disturbance\nof mood. It was the case now; at Mr. Gibson's entrance my lady took\noff her glasses, and smoothed her brow; Mrs. Kirkpatrick managed\nto get up a very becoming blush, and as for Molly, her face glowed\nwith delight, and the white teeth and pretty dimples came out like\nsunlight on a landscape.\n\nOf course, after the first greeting, my lady had to have a private\ninterview with her doctor; and Molly and her future stepmother\nwandered about in the gardens with their arms round each other's\nwaists, or hand in hand, like two babes in the wood; Mrs. Kirkpatrick\nactive in such endearments, Molly passive, and feeling within herself\nvery shy and strange; for she had that particular kind of shy modesty\nwhich makes any one uncomfortable at receiving caresses from a person\ntowards whom the heart does not go forth with an impulsive welcome.\n\nThen came the early dinner; Lady Cumnor having hers in the quiet of\nher own room, to which she was still a prisoner. Once or twice during\nthe meal, the idea crossed Molly's mind that her father disliked his\nposition as a middle-aged lover being made so evident to the men in\nwaiting as it was by Mrs. Kirkpatrick's affectionate speeches and\ninnuendos. He tried to banish every tint of pink sentimentalism from\nthe conversation, and to confine it to matter of fact; and when Mrs.\nKirkpatrick would persevere in referring to such things as had a\nbearing on the future relationship of the parties, he insisted upon\nviewing them in the most matter-of-fact way; and this continued even\nafter the men had left the room. An old rhyme Molly had heard Betty\nuse, would keep running in her head and making her uneasy,--\n\n   Two is company,\n   Three is trumpery.\n\nBut where could she go to in that strange house? What ought she to\ndo? She was roused from this fit of wonder and abstraction by her\nfather's saying--\"What do you think of this plan of Lady Cumnor's?\nShe says she was advising you to have Molly as a visitor at Ashcombe\nuntil we are married.\"\n\nMrs. Kirkpatrick's countenance fell. If only Molly would be so good\nas to testify again, as she had done before Lady Cumnor! But if the\nproposal was made by her father, it would come to his daughter from\na different quarter than it had done from a strange lady, be she\never so great. Molly did not say anything; she only looked pale, and\nwistful, and anxious. Mrs. Kirkpatrick had to speak for herself.\n\n\"It would be a charming plan, only--Well! we know why we would rather\nnot have it, don't we, love? And we won't tell papa, for fear of\nmaking him vain. No! I think I must leave her with you, dear Mr.\nGibson, to have you all to herself for these last few weeks. It would\nbe cruel to take her away.\"\n\n\"But you know, my dear, I told you of the reason why it does not do\nto have Molly at home just at present,\" said Mr. Gibson, eagerly. For\nthe more he knew of his future wife, the more he felt it necessary\nto remember that, with all her foibles, she would be able to stand\nbetween Molly and any such adventures as that which had occurred\nlately with Mr. Coxe; so that one of the good reasons for the step he\nhad taken was always present to him, while it had slipped off the\nsmooth surface of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's mirror-like mind without leaving\nany impression. She now recalled it, on seeing Mr. Gibson's anxious\nface.\n\nBut what were Molly's feelings at these last words of her father's?\nShe had been sent from home for some reason, kept a secret from her,\nbut told to this strange woman. Was there to be perfect confidence\nbetween these two, and she to be for ever shut out? Was she, and what\nconcerned her--though how she did not know--to be discussed between\nthem for the future, and she to be kept in the dark? A bitter pang\nof jealousy made her heart-sick. She might as well go to Ashcombe,\nor anywhere else, now. Thinking more of others' happiness than\nof her own was very fine; but did it not mean giving up her very\nindividuality, quenching all the warm love, the true desires, that\nmade her herself? Yet in this deadness lay her only comfort; or so it\nseemed. Wandering in such mazes, she hardly knew how the conversation\nwent on; a third was indeed \"trumpery,\" where there was entire\nconfidence between the two who were company, from which the other was\nshut out. She was positively unhappy, and her father did not appear\nto see it; he was absorbed with his new plans and his new wife that\nwas to be. But he did notice it; and was truly sorry for his little\ngirl: only he thought that there was a greater chance for the future\nharmony of the household, if he did not lead Molly to define her\npresent feelings by putting them into words. It was his general plan\nto repress emotion by not showing the sympathy he felt. Yet, when he\nhad to leave, he took Molly's hand in his, and held it there, in such\na different manner to that in which Mrs. Kirkpatrick had done; and\nhis voice softened to his child as he bade her good-by, and added the\nwords (most unusual to him), \"God bless you, child!\"\n\nMolly had held up all the day bravely; she had not shown anger, or\nrepugnance, or annoyance, or regret; but when once more by herself in\nthe Hamley carriage, she burst into a passion of tears, and cried her\nfill till she reached the village of Hamley. Then she tried in vain\nto smooth her face into smiles, and do away with the other signs of\nher grief. She only hoped she could run upstairs to her own room\nwithout notice, and bathe her eyes in cold water before she was seen.\nBut at the Hall-door she was caught by the squire and Roger coming in\nfrom an after-dinner stroll in the garden, and hospitably anxious to\nhelp her to alight. Roger saw the state of things in an instant, and\nsaying,--\n\n\"My mother has been looking for you to come back for this last hour,\"\nhe led the way to the drawing-room. But Mrs. Hamley was not there;\nthe Squire had stopped to speak to the coachman about one of the\nhorses; they two were alone. Roger said,--\n\n\"I'm afraid you've had a very trying day. I have thought of you\nseveral times, for I know how awkward these new relations are.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said she, her lips trembling, and on the point of crying\nagain. \"I did try to remember what you said, and to think more of\nothers, but it is so difficult sometimes; you know it is, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, gravely. He was gratified by her simple confession\nof having borne his words of advice in mind, and tried to act up to\nthem. He was but a very young man, and he was honestly flattered;\nperhaps this led him on to offer more advice, and this time it was\nevidently mingled with sympathy. He did not want to draw out her\nconfidence, which he felt might very easily be done with such a\nsimple girl; but he wished to help her by giving her a few of the\nprinciples on which he had learnt to rely. \"It is difficult,\" he went\non, \"but by-and-by you will be so much happier for it.\"\n\n\"No, I shan't!\" said Molly, shaking her head. \"It will be very dull\nwhen I shall have killed myself, as it were, and live only in trying\nto do, and to be, as other people like. I don't see any end to it.\nI might as well never have lived. And as for the happiness you speak\nof, I shall never be happy again.\"\n\nThere was an unconscious depth in what she said, that Roger did not\nknow how to answer at the moment; it was easier to address himself\nto the assertion of the girl of seventeen, that she should never be\nhappy again.\n\n\"Nonsense: perhaps in ten years' time you will be looking back on\nthis trial as a very light one--who knows?\"\n\n\"I daresay it seems foolish; perhaps all our earthly trials will\nappear foolish to us after a while; perhaps they seem so now to\nangels. But we are ourselves, you know, and this is _now_, not some\ntime to come, a long, long way off. And we are not angels, to be\ncomforted by seeing the ends for which everything is sent.\"\n\nShe had never spoken so long a sentence to him before; and when she\nhad said it, though she did not take her eyes away from his, as they\nstood steadily looking at each other, she blushed a little; she could\nnot have told why. Nor did he tell himself why a sudden pleasure came\nover him as he gazed at her simple expressive face--and for a moment\nlost the sense of what she was saying, in the sensation of pity for\nher sad earnestness. In an instant more he was himself again. Only\nit is pleasant to the wisest, most reasonable youth of one or two\nand twenty to find himself looked up to as a Mentor by a girl of\nseventeen.\n\n\"I know, I understand. Yes: it is _now_ we have to do with. Don't let\nus go into metaphysics.\" Molly opened her eyes wide at this. Had she\nbeen talking metaphysics without knowing it? \"One looks forward to\na mass of trials, which will only have to be encountered one by one,\nlittle by little. Oh, here is my mother! she will tell you better\nthan I can.\"\n\nAnd the _tête-à-tête_ was merged in a trio. Mrs. Hamley lay down; she\nhad not been well all day--she had missed Molly, she said,--and now\nshe wanted to hear of all the adventures that had occurred to the\ngirl at the Towers. Molly sate on a stool close to the head of the\nsofa, and Roger, though at first he took up a book and tried to read\nthat he might be no restraint, soon found his reading all a pretence:\nit was so interesting to listen to Molly's little narrative, and,\nbesides, if he could give her any help in her time of need, was it\nnot his duty to make himself acquainted with all the circumstances of\nher case?\n\nAnd so they went on during all the remaining time of Molly's stay\nat Hamley. Mrs. Hamley sympathized, and liked to hear details; as\nthe French say, her sympathy was given _en détail_, the Squire's\n_en gros_. He was very sorry for her evident grief, and almost felt\nguilty, as if he had had a share in bringing it about, by the mention\nhe had made of the possibility of Mr. Gibson's marrying again, when\nfirst Molly came on her visit to them. He said to his wife more than\nonce,--\n\n\"'Pon my word, now, I wish I'd never spoken those unlucky words that\nfirst day at dinner. Do you remember how she took them up? It was\nlike a prophecy of what was to come, now, wasn't it? And she looked\npale from that day, and I don't think she has ever fairly enjoyed her\nfood since. I must take more care what I say for the future. Not but\nwhat Gibson is doing the very best thing, both for himself and her,\nthat he can do. I told him so only yesterday. But I'm very sorry for\nthe little girl, though. I wish I'd never spoken about it, that I do!\nbut it was like a prophecy, wasn't it?\"\n\nRoger tried hard to find out a reasonable and right method of\ncomfort, for he, too, in his way, was sorry for the girl, who bravely\nstruggled to be cheerful, in spite of her own private grief, for his\nmother's sake. He felt as if high principle and noble precept ought\nto perform an immediate work. But they do not, for there is always\nthe unknown quantity of individual experience and feeling, which\noffer a tacit resistance, the amount incalculable by another, to all\ngood counsel and high decree. But the bond between the Mentor and his\nTelemachus strengthened every day. He endeavoured to lead her out\nof morbid thought into interest in other than personal things; and,\nnaturally enough, his own objects of interest came readiest to hand.\nShe felt that he did her good, she did not know why or how; but after\na talk with him, she always fancied that she had got the clue to\ngoodness and peace, whatever befell.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nPREPARING FOR THE WEDDING.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nMeanwhile the love-affairs between the middle-aged couple were\nprospering well, after a fashion; after the fashion that they liked\nbest, although it might probably have appeared dull and prosaic to\nyounger people. Lord Cumnor had come down in great glee at the news\nhe had heard from his wife at the Towers. He, too, seemed to think he\nhad taken an active part in bringing about the match by only speaking\nabout it. His first words on the subject to Lady Cumnor were,--\n\n\"I told you so. Now didn't I say what a good, suitable thing this\naffair between Gibson and Clare would be! I don't know when I've been\nso much pleased. You may despise the trade of match-maker, my lady,\nbut I am very proud of it. After this, I shall go on looking out\nfor suitable cases among the middle-aged people of my acquaintance.\nI shan't meddle with young folks, they are so apt to be fanciful;\nbut I've been so successful in this, that I do think it's good\nencouragement to go on.\"\n\n\"Go on--with what?\" asked Lady Cumnor, drily.\n\n\"Oh, planning,--you can't deny that I planned this match.\"\n\n\"I don't think you are likely to do either much good or harm by\nplanning,\" she replied, with cool, good sense.\n\n\"It puts it into people's heads, my dear.\"\n\n\"Yes, if you speak about your plans to them, of course it does. But\nin this case you never spoke to either Mr. Gibson or Clare, did you?\"\n\nAll at once the recollection of how Clare had come upon the passage\nin Lord Cumnor's letter flashed on his lady, but she did not say\nanything about it, but left her husband to flounder about as best he\nmight.\n\n\"No! I never spoke to them; of course not.\"\n\n\"Then you must be strongly mesmeric, and your will acted upon theirs,\nif you are to take credit for any part in the affair,\" continued his\npitiless wife.\n\n\"I really can't say. It's no use looking back to what I said or\ndid. I'm very well satisfied with it, and that's enough, and I mean\nto show them how much I'm pleased. I shall give Clare something\ntowards her rigging out, and they shall have a breakfast at Ashcombe\nManor-house. I'll write to Preston about it. When did you say they\nwere to be married?\"\n\n\"I think they'd better wait till Christmas, and I have told them so.\nIt would amuse the children, going over to Ashcombe for the wedding;\nand if it's bad weather during the holidays I'm always afraid of\ntheir finding it dull at the Towers. It's very different if it's a\ngood frost, and they can go out skating and sledging in the park. But\nthese last two years it has been so wet for them, poor dears!\"\n\n\"And will the other poor dears be content to wait to make a holiday\nfor your grandchildren? 'To make a Roman holiday.' Pope, or somebody\nelse, has a line of poetry like that. 'To make a Roman holiday,'\"--he\nrepeated, pleased with his unusual aptitude at quotation.\n\n\"It's Byron, and it's nothing to do with the subject in hand. I'm\nsurprised at your lordship's quoting Byron,--he was a very immoral\npoet.\"\n\n\"I saw him take his oaths in the House of Lords,\" said Lord Cumnor,\napologetically.\n\n\"Well! the less said about him the better,\" said Lady Cumnor. \"I have\ntold Clare that she had better not think of being married before\nChristmas: and it won't do for her to give up her school in a hurry\neither.\"\n\nBut Clare did not intend to wait till Christmas; and for this once\nshe carried her point against the will of the countess, and without\nmany words, or any open opposition. She had a harder task in setting\naside Mr. Gibson's desire to have Cynthia over for the wedding,\neven if she went back to her school at Boulogne directly after the\nceremony. At first she had said that it would be delightful, a\ncharming plan; only she feared that she must give up her own wishes\nto have her child near her at such a time, on account of the expense\nof the double journey.\n\nBut Mr. Gibson, economical as he was in his habitual expenditure,\nhad a really generous heart. He had already shown it, in entirely\nrelinquishing his future wife's life-interest in the very small\nproperty the late Mr. Kirkpatrick had left, in favour of Cynthia;\nwhile he arranged that she should come to his home as a daughter as\nsoon as she left the school she was at. The life-interest was about\nthirty pounds a year. Now he gave Mrs. Kirkpatrick three five-pound\nnotes, saying that he hoped they would do away with the objections\nto Cynthia's coming over to the wedding; and at the time Mrs.\nKirkpatrick felt as if they would, and caught the reflection of his\nstrong wish, and fancied it was her own. If the letter could have\nbeen written and the money sent off that day while the reflected\nglow of affection lasted, Cynthia would have been bridesmaid to\nher mother. But a hundred little interruptions came in the way of\nletter-writing; and by the next day maternal love had diminished;\nand the value affixed to the money had increased: money had been\nso much needed, so hardly earned in Mrs. Kirkpatrick's life; while\nthe perhaps necessary separation of mother and child had lessened\nthe amount of affection the former had to bestow. So she persuaded\nherself, afresh, that it would be unwise to disturb Cynthia at her\nstudies; to interrupt the fulfilment of her duties just after the\n_semestre_ had begun afresh; and she wrote a letter to Madame Lefevre\nso well imbued with this persuasion, that an answer which was almost\nan echo of her words was returned, the sense of which being conveyed\nto Mr. Gibson, who was no great French scholar, settled the vexed\nquestion, to his moderate but unfeigned regret. But the fifteen\npounds were not returned. Indeed, not merely that sum, but a\ngreat part of the hundred which Lord Cumnor had given her for her\ntrousseau, was required to pay off debts at Ashcombe; for the school\nhad been anything but flourishing since Mrs. Kirkpatrick had had it.\nIt was really very much to her credit that she preferred clearing\nherself from debt to purchasing wedding finery. But it was one of the\nfew points to be respected in Mrs. Kirkpatrick that she had always\nbeen careful in payment to the shops where she dealt; it was a little\nsense of duty cropping out. Whatever other faults might arise from\nher superficial and flimsy character, she was always uneasy till she\nwas out of debt. Yet she had no scruple in appropriating her future\nhusband's money to her own use, when it was decided that it was not\nto be employed as he intended. What new articles she bought for\nherself, were all such as would make a show, and an impression upon\nthe ladies of Hollingford. She argued with herself that linen, and\nall under-clothing, would never be seen; while she knew that every\ngown she had, would give rise to much discussion, and would be\ncounted up in the little town.\n\nSo her stock of underclothing was very small, and scarcely any of it\nnew; but it was made of dainty material, and was finely mended up\nby her deft fingers, many a night long after her pupils were in bed;\ninwardly resolving all the time she sewed, that hereafter some one\nelse should do her plain-work. Indeed, many a little circumstance of\nformer subjection to the will of others rose up before her during\nthese quiet hours, as an endurance or a suffering never to occur\nagain. So apt are people to look forward to a different kind of life\nfrom that to which they have been accustomed, as being free from care\nand trial! She recollected how, one time during this very summer at\nthe Towers, after she was engaged to Mr. Gibson, when she had taken\nabove an hour to arrange her hair in some new mode carefully studied\nfrom Mrs. Bradley's fashion-book--after all, when she came down,\nlooking her very best, as she thought, and ready for her lover, Lady\nCumnor had sent her back again to her room, just as if she had been\na little child, to do her hair over again, and not to make such a\nfigure of fun of herself! Another time she had been sent to change\nher gown for one in her opinion far less becoming, but which suited\nLady Cumnor's taste better. These were little things; but they were\nlate samples of what in different shapes she had had to endure for\nmany years; and her liking for Mr. Gibson grew in proportion to her\nsense of the evils from which he was going to serve as a means of\nescape. After all, that interval of hope and plain-sewing, intermixed\nthough it was with tuition, was not disagreeable. Her wedding-dress\nwas secure. Her former pupils at the Towers were going to present her\nwith that; they were to dress her from head to foot on the auspicious\nday. Lord Cumnor, as has been said, had given her a hundred pounds\nfor her trousseau, and had sent Mr. Preston a carte-blanche order for\nthe wedding-breakfast in the old hall in Ashcombe Manor-house. Lady\nCumnor--a little put out by the marriage not being deferred till\nher grandchildren's Christmas holidays--had nevertheless given Mrs.\nKirkpatrick an excellent English-made watch and chain; more clumsy\nbut more serviceable than the little foreign elegance that had hung\nat her side so long, and misled her so often.\n\nHer preparations were thus in a very considerable state of\nforwardness, while Mr. Gibson had done nothing as yet towards any new\narrangement or decoration of his house for his intended bride. He\nknew he ought to do something. But what? Where to begin, when so much\nwas out of order, and he had so little time for superintendence?\nAt length he came to the wise decision of asking one of the Miss\nBrownings, for old friendship's sake, to take the trouble of\npreparing what was immediately requisite; and resolved to leave all\nthe more ornamental decorations that he proposed, to the taste of his\nfuture wife. But before making his request to the Miss Brownings, he\nhad to tell them of his engagement, which had hitherto been kept a\nsecret from the townspeople, who had set down his frequent visits\nat the Towers to the score of the countess's health. He felt how he\nshould have laughed in his sleeve at any middle-aged widower who\ncame to him with a confession of the kind he had now to make to Miss\nBrownings, and disliked the idea of the necessary call: but it was to\nbe done, so one evening he went in \"promiscuous,\" as they called it,\nand told them his story. At the end of the first chapter--that is to\nsay, at the end of the story of Mr. Coxe's calf-love, Miss Browning\nheld up her hands in surprise.\n\n\"To think of Molly, as I have held in long-clothes, coming to have a\nlover! Well, to be sure! Sister Phoebe--\" (she was just coming into\nthe room), \"here's a piece of news! Molly Gibson has got a lover!\nOne may almost say she's had an offer! Mr. Gibson, may not one?--and\nshe's but sixteen!\"\n\n\"Seventeen, sister,\" said Miss Phoebe, who piqued herself on\nknowing all about dear Mr. Gibson's domestic affairs. \"Seventeen, the\n22nd of last June.\"\n\n\"Well, have it your own way. Seventeen, if you like to call her so!\"\nsaid Miss Browning, impatiently. \"The fact is still the same--she's\ngot a lover; and it seems to me she was in long-clothes only\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I hope her course of true love will run smooth,\" said Miss\nPhoebe.\n\nNow Mr. Gibson came in; for his story was not half told, and he\ndid not want them to run away too far with the idea of Molly's\nlove-affair.\n\n\"Molly knows nothing about it. I haven't even named it to any one\nbut you two, and to one other friend. I trounced Coxe well, and did\nmy best to keep his attachment--as he calls it--in bounds. But I\nwas sadly puzzled what to do about Molly. Miss Eyre was away, and I\ncouldn't leave them in the house together without any older woman.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Gibson! why did you not send her to us?\" broke in Miss\nBrowning. \"We would have done anything in our power for you; for your\nsake, as well as her poor dear mother's.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I know you would, but it wouldn't have done to have had\nher in Hollingford, just at the time of Coxe's effervescence. He's\nbetter now. His appetite has come back with double force, after the\nfasting he thought it right to exhibit. He had three helpings of\nblack-currant dumpling yesterday.\"\n\n\"I am sure you are most liberal, Mr. Gibson. Three helpings! And, I\ndaresay, butcher's meat in proportion?\"\n\n\"Oh! I only named it because, with such very young men, it's\ngenerally see-saw between appetite and love, and I thought the third\nhelping a very good sign. But still, you know, what has happened\nonce, may happen again.\"\n\n\"I don't know. Phoebe had an offer of marriage once--\" said Miss\nBrowning.\n\n\"Hush! sister. It might hurt his feelings to have it spoken about.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, child! It's five-and-twenty years ago; and his eldest\ndaughter is married herself.\"\n\n\"I own he has not been constant,\" pleaded Miss Phoebe, in\nher tender, piping voice. \"All men are not--like you, Mr.\nGibson--faithful to the memory of their first-love.\"\n\nMr. Gibson winced. Jeannie was his first love; but her name had never\nbeen breathed in Hollingford. His wife--good, pretty, sensible, and\nbeloved as she had been--was not his second; no, nor his third love.\nAnd now he was come to make a confidence about his second marriage.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said he; \"at any rate, I thought I must do something to\nprotect Molly from such affairs while she was so young, and before I\nhad given my sanction. Miss Eyre's little nephew fell ill of scarlet\nfever--\"\n\n\"Ah! by-the-by, how careless of me not to inquire. How is the poor\nlittle fellow?\"\n\n\"Worse--better. It doesn't signify to what I've got to say now; the\nfact was, Miss Eyre couldn't come back to my house for some time, and\nI cannot leave Molly altogether at Hamley.\"\n\n\"Ah! I see now, why there was that sudden visit to Hamley. Upon my\nword, it's quite a romance.\"\n\n\"I do like hearing of a love-affair,\" murmured Miss Phoebe.\n\n\"Then if you'll let me get on with my story, you shall hear of mine,\"\nsaid Mr. Gibson, quite beyond his patience with their constant\ninterruptions.\n\n\"Yours!\" said Miss Phoebe, faintly.\n\n\"Bless us and save us!\" said Miss Browning, with less sentiment in\nher tone; \"what next?\"\n\n\"My marriage, I hope,\" said Mr. Gibson, choosing to take her\nexpression of intense surprise literally. \"And that's what I came to\nspeak to you about.\"\n\nA little hope darted up in Miss Phoebe's breast. She had often said\nto her sister, in the confidence of curling-time (ladies wore curls\nin those days), \"that the only man who could ever bring her to think\nof matrimony was Mr. Gibson; but that if he ever proposed, she\nshould feel bound to accept him, for poor dear Mary's sake;\" never\nexplaining what exact style of satisfaction she imagined she should\ngive to her dead friend by marrying her late husband. Phoebe played\nnervously with the strings of her black silk apron. Like the Caliph\nin the Eastern story, a whole lifetime of possibilities passed\nthrough her mind in an instant, of which possibilities the question\nof questions was, Could she leave her sister? Attend, Phoebe, to\nthe present moment, and listen to what is being said before you\ndistress yourself with a perplexity which will never arise.\n\n\"Of course it has been an anxious thing for me to decide who I should\nask to be the mistress of my family, the mother of my girl; but I\nthink I've decided rightly at last. The lady I have chosen--\"\n\n\"Tell us at once who she is, there's a good man,\" said\nstraight-forward Miss Browning.\n\n\"Mrs. Kirkpatrick,\" said the bridegroom elect.\n\n\"What! the governess at the Towers, that the countess makes so much\nof?\"\n\n\"Yes; she is much valued by them--and deservedly so. She keeps a\nschool now at Ashcombe, and is accustomed to housekeeping. She has\nbrought up the young ladies at the Towers, and has a daughter of her\nown, therefore it is probable she will have a kind, motherly feeling\ntowards Molly.\"\n\n\"She's a very elegant-looking woman,\" said Miss Phoebe, feeling it\nincumbent upon her to say something laudatory, by way of concealing\nthe thoughts that had just been passing through her mind. \"I've seen\nher in the carriage, riding backwards with the countess: a very\npretty woman, I should say.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, sister,\" said Miss Browning. \"What has her elegance or\nprettiness to do with the affair? Did you ever know a widower marry\nagain for such trifles as those? It's always from a sense of duty of\none kind or another--isn't it, Mr. Gibson? They want a housekeeper;\nor they want a mother for their children; or they think their last\nwife would have liked it.\"\n\nPerhaps the thought had passed through the elder sister's mind that\nPhoebe might have been chosen, for there was a sharp acrimony in\nher tone; not unfamiliar to Mr. Gibson, but with which he did not\nchoose to cope at this present moment.\n\n\"You must have it your own way, Miss Browning. Settle my motives for\nme. I don't pretend to be quite clear about them myself. But I am\nclear in wishing heartily to keep my old friends, and for them to\nlove my future wife for my sake. I don't know any two women in the\nworld, except Molly and Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I regard as much as I do\nyou. Besides, I want to ask you if you will let Molly come and stay\nwith you till after my marriage?\"\n\n\"You might have asked us before you asked Madam Hamley,\" said Miss\nBrowning, only half mollified. \"We are your old friends; and we were\nher mother's friends, too; though we are not county folk.\"\n\n\"That's unjust,\" said Mr. Gibson. \"And you know it is.\"\n\n\"I don't know. You are always with Lord Hollingford, when you can\nget at him, much more than you ever are with Mr. Goodenough, or Mr.\nSmith. And you are always going over to Hamley.\"\n\nMiss Browning was not one to give in all at once.\n\n\"I seek Lord Hollingford as I should seek such a man, whatever his\nrank or position might be: usher to a school, carpenter, shoemaker,\nif it were possible for them to have had a similar character of mind\ndeveloped by similar advantages. Mr. Goodenough is a very clever\nattorney, with strong local interests and not a thought beyond.\"\n\n\"Well, well, don't go on arguing, it always gives me a headache, as\nPhoebe knows. I didn't mean what I said, that's enough, isn't it?\nI'll retract anything sooner than be reasoned with. Where were we\nbefore you began your arguments?\"\n\n\"About dear little Molly coming to pay us a visit,\" said Miss\nPhoebe.\n\n\"I should have asked you at first, only Coxe was so rampant with his\nlove. I didn't know what he might do, or how troublesome he might be\nboth to Molly and you. But he has cooled down now. Absence has had\na very tranquillizing effect, and I think Molly may be in the same\ntown with him, without any consequences beyond a few sighs every time\nshe's brought to his mind by meeting her. And I've got another favour\nto ask of you, so you see it would never do for me to argue with you,\nMiss Browning, when I ought to be a humble suppliant. Something must\nbe done to the house to make it all ready for the future Mrs. Gibson.\nIt wants painting and papering shamefully, and I should think some\nnew furniture, but I'm sure I don't know what. Would you be so very\nkind as to look over the place, and see how far a hundred pounds\nwill go? The dining-room walls must be painted; we'll keep the\ndrawing-room paper for her choice, and I've a little spare money for\nthat room for her to lay out; but all the rest of the house I'll\nleave to you, if you'll only be kind enough to help an old friend.\"\n\nThis was a commission which exactly gratified Miss Browning's love\nof power. The disposal of money involved patronage of trades people,\nsuch as she had exercised in her father's lifetime, but had had very\nlittle chance of showing since his death. Her usual good-humour was\nquite restored by this proof of confidence in her taste and economy,\nwhile Miss Phoebe's imagination dwelt rather on the pleasure of a\nvisit from Molly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nMOLLY GIBSON'S NEW FRIENDS.\n\n\nTime was speeding on; it was now the middle of August,--if anything\nwas to be done to the house, it must be done at once. Indeed, in\nseveral ways Mr. Gibson's arrangements with Miss Browning had not\nbeen made too soon. The squire had heard that Osborne might probably\nreturn home for a few days before going abroad; and, though the\ngrowing intimacy between Roger and Molly did not alarm him in the\nleast, yet he was possessed by a very hearty panic lest the heir\nmight take a fancy to the surgeon's daughter; and he was in such a\nfidget for her to leave the house before Osborne came home, that his\nwife lived in constant terror lest he should make it too obvious to\ntheir visitor.\n\nEvery young girl of seventeen or so, who is at all thoughtful, is\nvery apt to make a Pope out of the first person who presents to\nher a new or larger system of duty than that by which she has been\nunconsciously guided hitherto. Such a Pope was Roger to Molly; she\nlooked to his opinion, to his authority on almost every subject, yet\nhe had only said one or two things in a terse manner which gave them\nthe force of precepts--stable guides to her conduct--and had shown\nthe natural superiority in wisdom and knowledge which is sure to\nexist between a highly educated young man of no common intelligence,\nand an ignorant girl of seventeen, who yet was well capable of\nappreciation. Still, although they were drawn together in this very\npleasant relationship, each was imagining some one very different for\nthe future owner of their whole heart--their highest and completest\nlove. Roger looked to find a grand woman, his equal, and his empress;\nbeautiful in person, serene in wisdom, ready for counsel, as was\nEgeria. Molly's little wavering maiden fancy dwelt on the unseen\nOsborne, who was now a troubadour, and now a knight, such as he wrote\nabout in one of his own poems; some one like Osborne, perhaps, rather\nthan Osborne himself, for she shrank from giving a personal form\nand name to the hero that was to be. The squire was not unwise in\nwishing her well out of the house before Osborne came home, if he was\nconsidering her peace of mind. Yet, when she went away from the hall\nhe missed her constantly; it had been so pleasant to have her there\nfulfilling all the pretty offices of a daughter; cheering the meals,\nso often tête-à-tête betwixt him and Roger, with her innocent wise\nquestions, her lively interest in their talk, her merry replies to\nhis banter.\n\nAnd Roger missed her too. Sometimes her remarks had probed into his\nmind, and excited him to the deep thought in which he delighted; at\nother times he had felt himself of real help to her in her hours of\nneed, and in making her take an interest in books, which treated of\nhigher things than the continual fiction and poetry which she had\nhitherto read. He felt something like an affectionate tutor suddenly\ndeprived of his most promising pupil; he wondered how she would go\non without him; whether she would be puzzled and disheartened by the\nbooks he had lent her to read; how she and her stepmother would get\nalong together? She occupied his thoughts a good deal those first\nfew days after she left the hall. Mrs. Hamley regretted her more,\nand longer than did the other two. She had given her the place of\na daughter in her heart; and now she missed the sweet feminine\ncompanionship, the playful caresses, the never-ceasing attentions;\nthe very need of sympathy in her sorrows, that Molly had shown so\nopenly from time to time; all these things had extremely endeared her\nto the tender-hearted Mrs. Hamley.\n\nMolly, too, felt the change of atmosphere keenly; and she blamed\nherself for so feeling even more keenly still. But she could not\nhelp having a sense of refinement, which had made her appreciate the\nwhole manner of being at the Hall. By her dear old friends the Miss\nBrownings she was petted and caressed so much that she became ashamed\nof noticing the coarser and louder tones in which they spoke, the\nprovincialism of their pronunciation, the absence of interest in\nthings, and their greediness of details about persons. They asked her\nquestions which she was puzzled enough to answer about her future\nstepmother; her loyalty to her father forbidding her to reply fully\nand truthfully. She was always glad when they began to make inquiries\nas to every possible affair at the Hall. She had been so happy there;\nshe had liked them all, down to the very dogs, so thoroughly, that it\nwas easy work replying: she did not mind telling them everything,\neven to the style of Mrs. Hamley's invalid dress; nor what wine the\nsquire drank at dinner. Indeed, talking about these things helped\nher to recall the happiest time in her life. But one evening, as\nthey were all sitting together after tea in the little upstairs\ndrawing-room, looking into the High Street--Molly discoursing away on\nthe various pleasures of Hamley Hall, and just then telling of all\nRoger's wisdom in natural science, and some of the curiosities he had\nshown her, she was suddenly pulled up by this little speech,--\n\n\"You seem to have seen a great deal of Mr. Roger, Molly!\" said Miss\nBrowning, in a way intended to convey a great deal of meaning to her\nsister and none at all to Molly. But--\n\n   The man recovered of the bite;\n   The dog it was that died.\n\nMolly was perfectly aware of Miss Browning's emphatic tone, though at\nfirst she was perplexed as to its cause; while Miss Phoebe was just\nthen too much absorbed in knitting the heel of her stocking to be\nfully alive to her sister's nods and winks.\n\n\"Yes; he was very kind to me,\" said Molly, slowly, pondering over\nMiss Browning's manner, and unwilling to say more until she had\nsatisfied herself to what the question tended.\n\n\"I daresay you will soon be going to Hamley Hall again? He's not\nthe eldest son, you know, Phoebe! Don't make my head ache with your\neternal 'eighteen, nineteen,' but attend to the conversation. Molly\nis telling us how much she saw of Mr. Roger, and how kind he was to\nher. I've always heard he was a very nice young man, my dear. Tell\nus some more about him! Now, Phoebe, attend! How was he kind to you,\nMolly?\"\n\n\"Oh, he told me what books to read; and one day he made me notice how\nmany bees I saw--\"\n\n\"Bees, child! What do you mean? Either you or he must have been\ncrazy!\"\n\n\"No, not at all. There are more than two hundred kinds of bees in\nEngland, and he wanted me to notice the difference between them and\nflies. Miss Browning, I can't help seeing what you fancy,\" said\nMolly, as red as fire, \"but it is very wrong; it is all a mistake. I\nwon't speak another word about Mr. Roger or Hamley at all, if it puts\nsuch silly notions into your head.\"\n\n\"Highty-tighty! Here's a young lady to be lecturing her elders! Silly\nnotions indeed! They are in your head, it seems. And let me tell you,\nMolly, you are too young to let your mind be running on lovers.\"\n\nMolly had been once or twice called saucy and impertinent, and\ncertainly a little sauciness came out now.\n\n\"I never said what the 'silly notion' was, Miss Browning; did I now,\nMiss Phoebe? Don't you see, dear Miss Phoebe, it is all her own\ninterpretation, and according to her own fancy, this foolish talk\nabout lovers?\"\n\nMolly was flaming with indignation; but she had appealed to the\nwrong person for justice. Miss Phoebe tried to make peace after the\nfashion of weak-minded people, who would cover over the unpleasant\nsight of a sore, instead of trying to heal it.\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know anything about it, my dear. It seems to me\nthat what Dorothy was saying was very true--very true indeed; and I\nthink, love, you misunderstood her; or, perhaps, she misunderstood\nyou; or I may be misunderstanding it altogether; so we'd better not\ntalk any more about it. What price did you say you were going to give\nfor the drugget in Mr. Gibson's dining-room, sister?\"\n\nSo Miss Browning and Molly went on till evening, each chafed and\nangry with the other. They wished each other good-night, going\nthrough the usual forms in the coolest manner possible. Molly went\nup to her little bedroom, clean and neat as a bedroom could be, with\ndraperies of small delicate patchwork--bed-curtains, window-curtains,\nand counterpane; a japanned toilette-table, full of little boxes,\nwith a small looking-glass affixed to it, that distorted every face\nthat was so unwise as to look in it. This room had been to the child\none of the most dainty and luxurious places ever seen, in comparison\nwith her own bare, white-dimity bedroom; and now she was sleeping in\nit, as a guest, and all the quaint adornments she had once peeped at\nas a great favour, as they were carefully wrapped up in cap-paper,\nwere set out for her use. And yet how little she had deserved this\nhospitable care; how impertinent she had been; how cross she had felt\never since! She was crying tears of penitence and youthful misery\nwhen there came a low tap to the door. Molly opened it, and there\nstood Miss Browning, in a wonderful erection of a nightcap, and\nscantily attired in a coloured calico jacket over her scrimpy and\nshort white petticoat.\n\n\"I was afraid you were asleep, child,\" said she, coming in and\nshutting the door. \"But I wanted to say to you we've got wrong\nto-day, somehow; and I think it was perhaps my doing. It's as well\nPhoebe shouldn't know, for she thinks me perfect; and when there's\nonly two of us, we get along better if one of us thinks the other\ncan do no wrong. But I rather think I was a little cross. We'll not\nsay any more about it, Molly; only we'll go to sleep friends,--and\nfriends we'll always be, child, won't we? Now give me a kiss,\nand don't cry and swell your eyes up;--and put out your candle\ncarefully.\"\n\n\"I was wrong--it was my fault,\" said Molly, kissing her.\n\n\"Fiddlestick-ends! Don't contradict me! I say it was my fault, and\nI won't hear another word about it.\"\n\nThe next day Molly went with Miss Browning to see the changes going\non in her father's house. To her they were but dismal improvements.\nThe faint grey of the dining-room walls, which had harmonized well\nenough with the deep crimson of the moreen curtains, and which\nwhen well cleaned looked thinly coated rather than dirty, was now\nexchanged for a pink salmon-colour of a very glowing hue; and the\nnew curtains were of that pale sea-green just coming into fashion.\n\"Very bright and pretty,\" Miss Browning called it; and in the first\nrenewing of their love Molly could not bear to contradict her. She\ncould only hope that the green and brown drugget would tone down the\nbrightness and prettiness. There was scaffolding here, scaffolding\nthere, and Betty scolding everywhere.\n\n\"Come up now, and see your papa's bedroom. He's sleeping upstairs in\nyours, that everything may be done up afresh in his.\"\n\nMolly could just remember, in faint clear lines of distinctness, the\nbeing taken into this very room to bid farewell to her dying mother.\nShe could see the white linen, the white muslin, surrounding the\npale, wan wistful face, with the large, longing eyes, yearning for\none more touch of the little soft warm child, whom she was too feeble\nto clasp in her arms, already growing numb in death. Many a time when\nMolly had been in this room since that sad day, had she seen in vivid\nfancy that same wan wistful face lying on the pillow, the outline\nof the form beneath the clothes; and the girl had not shrunk from\nsuch visions, but rather cherished them, as preserving to her the\nremembrance of her mother's outward semblance. Her eyes were full of\ntears, as she followed Miss Browning into this room to see it under\nits new aspect. Nearly everything was changed--the position of the\nbed and the colour of the furniture; there was a grand toilette-table\nnow, with a glass upon it, instead of the primitive substitute of the\ntop of a chest of drawers, with a mirror above upon the wall, sloping\ndownwards; these latter things had served her mother during her short\nmarried life.\n\n\"You see, we must have all in order for a lady who has passed so\nmuch of her time in the countess's mansion,\" said Miss Browning, who\nwas now quite reconciled to the marriage, thanks to the pleasant\nemployment of furnishing that had devolved upon her in consequence.\n\"Cromer, the upholsterer, wanted to persuade me to have a sofa and a\nwriting-table. These men will say anything is the fashion, if they\nwant to sell an article. I said, 'No, no, Cromer: bedrooms are for\nsleeping in, and sitting-rooms are for sitting in. Keep everything to\nits right purpose, and don't try and delude me into nonsense.' Why,\nmy mother would have given us a fine scolding if she had ever caught\nus in our bedrooms in the daytime. We kept our out-door things in\na closet downstairs; and there was a very tidy place for washing\nour hands, which is as much as one wants in the daytime. Stuffing\nup a bedroom with sofas and tables! I never heard of such a thing.\nBesides, a hundred pounds won't last for ever. I sha'n't be able to\ndo anything for your room, Molly!\"\n\n\"I'm right down glad of it,\" said Molly. \"Nearly everything in it was\nwhat mamma had when she lived with my great-uncle. I wouldn't have\nhad it changed for the world; I am so fond of it.\"\n\n\"Well, there's no danger of it, now the money is run out. By the way,\nMolly, who's to buy you a bridesmaid's dress?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Molly; \"I suppose I am to be a bridesmaid; but\nno one has spoken to me about my dress.\"\n\n\"Then I shall ask your papa.\"\n\n\"Please, don't. He must have to spend a great deal of money just now.\nBesides, I would rather not be at the wedding, if they'll let me stay\naway.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, child. Why, all the town would be talking of it. You must\ngo, and you must be well dressed, for your father's sake.\"\n\nBut Mr. Gibson had thought of Molly's dress, although he had said\nnothing about it to her. He had commissioned his future wife to get\nher what was requisite; and presently a very smart dressmaker came\nover from the county-town to try on a dress, which was both so simple\nand so elegant as at once to charm Molly. When it came home all ready\nto put on, Molly had a private dressing-up for the Miss Brownings'\nbenefit; and she was almost startled when she looked into the glass,\nand saw the improvement in her appearance. \"I wonder if I'm pretty,\"\nthought she. \"I almost think I am--in this kind of dress I mean, of\ncourse. Betty would say, 'Fine feathers make fine birds.'\"\n\nWhen she went downstairs in her bridal attire, and with shy blushes\npresented herself for inspection, she was greeted with a burst of\nadmiration.\n\n\"Well, upon my word! I shouldn't have known you.\" (\"Fine feathers,\"\nthought Molly, and checked her rising vanity.)\n\n\"You are really beautiful--isn't she, sister?\" said Miss Phoebe.\n\"Why, my dear, if you were always dressed, you would be prettier than\nyour dear mamma, whom we always reckoned so very personable.\"\n\n\"You're not a bit like her. You favour your father, and white always\nsets off a brown complexion.\"\n\n\"But isn't she beautiful?\" persevered Miss Phoebe.\n\n\"Well! and if she is, Providence made her, and not she herself.\nBesides, the dressmaker must go shares. What a fine India muslin it\nis! it'll have cost a pretty penny!\"\n\nMr. Gibson and Molly drove over to Ashcombe, the night before the\nwedding, in the one yellow post-chaise that Hollingford possessed.\nThey were to be Mr. Preston's, or, rather, my lord's guests at the\nManor-house. The Manor-house came up to its name, and delighted Molly\nat first sight. It was built of stone, had many gables and mullioned\nwindows, and was covered over with Virginian creeper and late-blowing\nroses. Molly did not know Mr. Preston, who stood in the doorway\nto greet her father. She took standing with him as a young lady\nat once, and it was the first time she had met with the kind of\nbehaviour--half complimentary, half flirting--which some men think\nit necessary to assume with every woman under five-and-twenty. Mr.\nPreston was very handsome, and knew it. He was a fair man, with\nlight-brown hair and whiskers; grey, roving, well-shaped eyes, with\nlashes darker than his hair; and a figure rendered easy and supple by\nthe athletic exercises in which his excellence was famous, and which\nhad procured him admission into much higher society than he was\notherwise entitled to enter. He was a capital cricketer; was so good\na shot, that any house desirous of reputation for its bags on the\n12th or the 1st, was glad to have him for a guest. He taught young\nladies to play billiards on a wet day, or went in for the game in\nserious earnest when required. He knew half the private theatrical\nplays off by heart, and was invaluable in arranging impromptu\ncharades and tableaux. He had his own private reasons for wishing\nto get up a flirtation with Molly just at this time; he had amused\nhimself so much with the widow when she first came to Ashcombe, that\nhe fancied that the sight of him, standing by her less polished, less\nhandsome, middle-aged husband, might be too much of a contrast to be\nagreeable. Besides, he had really a strong passion for some one else;\nsome one who would be absent; and that passion it was necessary for\nhim to conceal. So that, altogether, he had resolved, even had \"the\nlittle Gibson-girl\" (as he called her) been less attractive than she\nwas, to devote himself to her for the next sixteen hours.\n\nThey were taken by their host into a wainscoted parlour, where a\nwood fire crackled and burnt, and the crimson curtains shut out the\nwaning day and the outer chill. Here the table was laid for dinner;\nsnowy table-linen, bright silver, clear sparkling glass, wine and an\nautumnal dessert on the sideboard. Yet Mr. Preston kept apologizing\nto Molly for the rudeness of his bachelor home, for the smallness of\nthe room, the great dining-room being already appropriated by his\nhousekeeper, in preparation for the morrow's breakfast. And then he\nrang for a servant to show Molly to her room. She was taken into a\nmost comfortable chamber; a wood fire on the hearth, candles lighted\non the toilette-table, dark woollen curtains surrounding a snow-white\nbed, great vases of china standing here and there.\n\n\"This is my Lady Harriet's room when her ladyship comes to the\nManor-house with my lord the earl,\" said the housemaid, striking\nout thousands of brilliant sparks by a well-directed blow at a\nsmouldering log. \"Shall I help you to dress, miss? I always helps her\nladyship.\"\n\nMolly, quite aware of the fact that she had but her white muslin gown\nfor the wedding besides that she had on, dismissed the good woman,\nand was thankful to be left to herself.\n\n\"Dinner\" was it called? Why, it was nearly eight o'clock; and\npreparations for bed seemed a more natural employment than dressing\nat this hour of night. All the dressing she could manage was the\nplacing of a red damask rose or two in the band of her grey stuff\ngown, there being a great nosegay of choice autumnal flowers on the\ntoilette-table. She did try the effect of another crimson rose in\nher black hair, just above her ear; it was very pretty, but too\ncoquettish, and so she put it back again. The dark-oak panels and\nwainscoting of the whole house seemed to glow in warm light; there\nwere so many fires in different rooms, in the hall, and even one on\nthe landing of the staircase. Mr. Preston must have heard her step,\nfor he met her in the hall, and led her into a small drawing-room,\nwith closed folding-doors on one side, opening into the larger\ndrawing-room, as he told her. This room into which she entered\nreminded her a little of Hamley--yellow-satin upholstery of seventy\nor a hundred years ago, all delicately kept and scrupulously clean;\ngreat Indian cabinets, and china jars, emitting spicy odours; a large\nblazing fire, before which her father stood in his morning dress,\ngrave and thoughtful, as he had been all day.\n\n\"This room is that which Lady Harriet uses when she comes here with\nher father for a day or two,\" said Mr. Preston. And Molly tried to\nsave her father by being ready to talk herself.\n\n\"Does she often come here?\"\n\n\"Not often. But I fancy she likes being here when she does. Perhaps\nshe finds it an agreeable change after the more formal life she leads\nat the Towers.\"\n\n\"I should think it was a very pleasant house to stay at,\" said Molly,\nremembering the look of warm comfort that pervaded it. But a little\nto her dismay Mr. Preston seemed to take it as a compliment to\nhimself.\n\n\"I was afraid a young lady like you might perceive all the\nincongruities of a bachelor's home. I'm very much obliged to you,\nMiss Gibson. In general I live pretty much in the room in which we\nshall dine; and I've a sort of agent's office in which I keep books\nand papers, and receive callers on business.\"\n\nThen they went in to dinner. Molly thought everything that was served\nwas delicious, and cooked to the point of perfection; but they\ndid not seem to satisfy Mr. Preston, who apologized to his guests\nseveral times for the bad cooking of this dish, or the omission\nof a particular sauce to that; always referring to bachelor's\nhousekeeping, bachelor's this and bachelor's that, till Molly grew\nquite impatient at the word. Her father's depression, which was still\ncontinuing and rendering him very silent, made her uneasy; yet she\nwished to conceal it from Mr. Preston; and so she talked away, trying\nto obviate the sort of personal bearing which their host would give\nto everything. She did not know when to leave the gentlemen, but her\nfather made a sign to her; and she was conducted back to the yellow\ndrawing-room by Mr. Preston, who made many apologies for leaving\nher there alone. She enjoyed herself extremely, however, feeling at\nliberty to prowl about, and examine all the curiosities the room\ncontained. Among other things was a Louis Quinze cabinet with lovely\nminiatures in enamel let into the fine woodwork. She carried a candle\nto it, and was looking intently at these faces when her father and\nMr. Preston came in. Her father still looked care-worn and anxious;\nhe came up and patted her on the back, looked at what she was looking\nat, and then went off to silence and the fire. Mr. Preston took the\ncandle out of her hand, and threw himself into her interests with an\nair of ready gallantry.\n\n\"That is said to be Mademoiselle de St. Quentin, a great beauty at\nthe French Court. This is Madame du Barri. Do you see any likeness in\nMademoiselle de St. Quentin to any one you know?\" He had lowered his\nvoice a little as he asked this question.\n\n\"No!\" said Molly, looking at it again. \"I never saw any one half so\nbeautiful.\"\n\n\"But don't you see a likeness--in the eyes particularly?\" he asked\nagain, with some impatience.\n\nMolly tried hard to find out a resemblance, and was again\nunsuccessful.\n\n\"It constantly reminds me of--of Miss Kirkpatrick.\"\n\n\"Does it?\" said Molly, eagerly. \"Oh! I am so glad--I've never seen\nher, so of course I couldn't find out the likeness. You know her,\nthen, do you? Please tell me all about her.\"\n\nHe hesitated a moment before speaking. He smiled a little before\nreplying.\n\n\"She's very beautiful; that of course is understood when I say that\nthis miniature does not come up to her for beauty.\"\n\n\"And besides?--Go on, please.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'besides'?\"\n\n\"Oh! I suppose she's very clever and accomplished?\"\n\nThat was not in the least what Molly wanted to ask; but it was\ndifficult to word the vague vastness of her unspoken inquiry.\n\n\"She is clever naturally; she has picked up accomplishments. But she\nhas such a charm about her, one forgets what she herself is in the\nhalo that surrounds her. You ask me all this, Miss Gibson, and I\nanswer truthfully; or else I should not entertain one young lady with\nmy enthusiastic praises of another.\"\n\n\"I don't see why not,\" said Molly. \"Besides, if you wouldn't do it\nin general, I think you ought to do it in my case; for you, perhaps,\ndon't know, but she is coming to live with us when she leaves school,\nand we are very nearly the same age; so it will be almost like having\na sister.\"\n\n\"She is to live with you, is she?\" said Mr. Preston, to whom this\nintelligence was news. \"And when is she to leave school? I thought\nshe would surely have been at this wedding; but I was told she was\nnot to come. When is she to leave school?\"\n\n\"I think it is to be at Easter. You know she's at Boulogne, and it's\na long journey for her to come alone; or else papa wished for her to\nbe at the marriage very much indeed.\"\n\n\"And her mother prevented it?--I understand.\"\n\n\"No, it wasn't her mother; it was the French schoolmistress, who\ndidn't think it desirable.\"\n\n\"It comes to pretty much the same thing. And she's to return and live\nwith you after Easter?\"\n\n\"I believe so. Is she a grave or a merry person?\"\n\n\"Never very grave, as far as I have seen of her. Sparkling would\nbe the word for her, I think. Do you ever write to her? If you do,\npray remember me to her, and tell her how we have been talking about\nher--you and I.\"\n\n\"I never write to her,\" said Molly, rather shortly.\n\nTea came in; and after that they all went to bed. Molly heard her\nfather exclaim at the fire in his bedroom, and Mr. Preston's reply--\n\n\"I pique myself on my keen relish for all creature comforts, and also\non my power of doing without them, if need be. My lord's woods are\nample, and I indulge myself with a fire in my bedroom for nine months\nin the year; yet I could travel in Iceland without wincing from the\ncold.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nMOLLY FINDS HERSELF PATRONIZED.\n\n\nThe wedding went off much as such affairs do. Lord Cumnor and Lady\nHarriet drove over from the Towers, so the hour for the ceremony\nwas as late as possible. Lord Cumnor came in order to officiate as\nthe bride's father, and was in more open glee than either bride or\nbridegroom, or any one else. Lady Harriet came as a sort of amateur\nbridesmaid, to \"share Molly's duties,\" as she called it. They went\nfrom the Manor-house in two carriages to the church in the park, Mr.\nPreston and Mr. Gibson in one, and Molly, to her dismay, shut up with\nLord Cumnor and Lady Harriet in the other. Lady Harriet's gown of\nwhite muslin had seen one or two garden-parties, and was not in the\nfreshest order; it had been rather a freak of the young lady's at the\nlast moment. She was very merry, and very much inclined to talk to\nMolly, by way of finding out what sort of a little personage Clare\nwas to have for her future daughter. She began:--\n\n\"We mustn't crush this pretty muslin dress of yours. Put it over\npapa's knee; he doesn't mind it in the least.\"\n\n\"What, my dear, a white dress!--no, to be sure not. I rather like\nit. Besides, going to a wedding, who minds anything? It would be\ndifferent if we were going to a funeral.\"\n\nMolly conscientiously strove to find out the meaning of this speech;\nbut before she had done so, Lady Harriet spoke again, going to the\npoint, as she always piqued herself on doing:\n\n\"I daresay it's something of a trial to you, this second marriage of\nyour father's; but you'll find Clare the most amiable of women. She\nalways let me have my own way, and I've no doubt she'll let you have\nyours.\"\n\n\"I mean to try and like her,\" said Molly, in a low voice, striving\nhard to keep down the tears that would keep rising to her eyes this\nmorning. \"I've seen very little of her yet.\"\n\n\"Why, it's the very best thing for you that could have happened, my\ndear,\" said Lord Cumnor. \"You're growing up into a young lady--and\na very pretty young lady, too, if you'll allow an old man to say\nso--and who so proper as your father's wife to bring you out, and\nshow you off, and take you to balls, and that kind of thing? I\nalways said this match that is going to come off to-day was the most\nsuitable thing I ever knew; and it's even a better thing for you than\nfor the people themselves.\"\n\n\"Poor child!\" said Lady Harriet, who had caught a sight of Molly's\ntroubled face, \"the thought of balls is too much for her just now;\nbut you'll like having Cynthia Kirkpatrick for a companion, shan't\nyou, dear?\"\n\n\"Very much,\" said Molly, cheering up a little. \"Do you know her?\"\n\n\"Oh, I've seen her over and over again when she was a little girl,\nand once or twice since. She's the prettiest creature that you ever\nsaw; and with eyes that mean mischief, if I'm not mistaken. But\nClare kept her spirit under pretty well when she was staying with\nus,--afraid of her being troublesome, I fancy.\"\n\nBefore Molly could shape her next question, they were at the church;\nand she and Lady Harriet went into a pew near the door to wait for\nthe bride, in whose train they were to proceed to the altar. The earl\ndrove on alone to fetch her from her own house, not a quarter of a\nmile distant. It was pleasant to her to be led to the hymeneal altar\nby a belted earl, and pleasant to have his daughter as a volunteer\nbridesmaid. Mrs. Kirkpatrick in this flush of small gratifications,\nand on the brink of matrimony with a man whom she liked, and who\nwould be bound to support her without any exertion of her own, looked\nbeamingly happy and handsome. A little cloud came over her face at\nthe sight of Mr. Preston,--the sweet perpetuity of her smile was\nrather disturbed as he followed in Mr. Gibson's wake. But his face\nnever changed; he bowed to her gravely, and then seemed absorbed in\nthe service. Ten minutes, and all was over. The bride and bridegroom\nwere driving together to the Manor-house, Mr. Preston was walking\nthither by a short cut, and Molly was again in the carriage with my\nlord, rubbing his hands and chuckling, and Lady Harriet, trying to\nbe kind and consolatory, when her silence would have been the best\ncomfort.\n\nMolly found out, to her dismay, that the plan was for her to return\nwith Lord Cumnor and Lady Harriet when they went back to the Towers\nin the evening. In the meantime Lord Cumnor had business to do with\nMr. Preston, and after the happy couple had driven off on their\nweek's holiday tour, she was to be left alone with the formidable\nLady Harriet. When they were by themselves after all the others had\nbeen thus disposed of, Lady Harriet sate still over the drawing-room\nfire, holding a screen between it and her face, but gazing intently\nat Molly for a minute or two. Molly was fully conscious of this\nprolonged look, and was trying to get up her courage to return the\nstare, when Lady Harriet suddenly said,--\n\n\"I like you;--you are a little wild creature, and I want to tame you.\nCome here, and sit on this stool by me. What is your name? or what do\nthey call you?--as North-country people would express it.\"\n\n\"Molly Gibson. My real name is Mary.\"\n\n\"Molly is a nice, soft-sounding name. People in the last century\nweren't afraid of homely names; now we are all so smart and fine: no\nmore 'Lady Bettys' now. I almost wonder they haven't re-christened\nall the worsted and knitting-cotton that bears her name. Fancy Lady\nConstantia's cotton, or Lady Anna-Maria's worsted.\"\n\n\"I didn't know there was a Lady Betty's cotton,\" said Molly.\n\n\"That proves you don't do fancy-work! You'll find Clare will set\nyou to it, though. She used to set me at piece after piece: knights\nkneeling to ladies; impossible flowers. But I must do her the justice\nto add that when I got tired of them she finished them herself. I\nwonder how you'll get on together?\"\n\n\"So do I!\" sighed out Molly, under her breath.\n\n\"I used to think I managed her, till one day an uncomfortable\nsuspicion arose that all the time she had been managing me. Still\nit's easy work to let oneself be managed; at any rate till one wakens\nup to the consciousness of the process, and then it may become\namusing, if one takes it in that light.\"\n\n\"I should hate to be managed,\" said Molly, indignantly. \"I'll try and\ndo what she wishes for papa's sake, if she'll only tell me outright;\nbut I should dislike to be trapped into anything.\"\n\n\"Now I,\" said Lady Harriet, \"am too lazy to avoid traps; and I rather\nlike to remark the cleverness with which they're set. But then,\nof course, I know that if I choose to exert myself, I can break\nthrough the withes of green flax with which they try to bind me. Now,\nperhaps, you won't be able.\"\n\n\"I don't quite understand what you mean,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Oh, well--never mind; I daresay it's as well for you that you\nshouldn't. The moral of all I have been saying is, 'Be a good girl,\nand suffer yourself to be led, and you'll find your new stepmother\nthe sweetest creature imaginable.' You'll get on capitally with her,\nI make no doubt. How you'll get on with her daughter is another\naffair; but I daresay very well. Now we'll ring for tea; for I\nsuppose that heavy breakfast is to stand for our lunch.\"\n\nMr. Preston came into the room just at this time, and Molly was a\nlittle surprised at Lady Harriet's cool manner of dismissing him,\nremembering as she did how Mr. Preston had implied his intimacy with\nher ladyship the evening before at dinner-time.\n\n\"I cannot bear that sort of person,\" said Lady Harriet, almost before\nhe was out of hearing; \"giving himself airs of gallantry towards\none to whom his simple respect is all his duty. I can talk to one\nof my father's labourers with pleasure, while with a man like that\nunderbred fop I am all over thorns and nettles. What is it the Irish\ncall that style of creature? They've some capital word for it, I\nknow. What is it?\"\n\n\"I don't know--I never heard it,\" said Molly, a little ashamed of her\nignorance.\n\n\"Oh! that shows you've never read Miss Edgeworth's tales;--now,\nhave you? If you had, you'd have recollected that there was such\na word, even if you didn't remember what it was. If you've never\nread those stories, they would be just the thing to beguile your\nsolitude--vastly improving and moral, and yet quite sufficiently\ninteresting. I'll lend them to you while you're all alone.\"\n\n\"I'm not alone. I'm not at home, but on a visit to Miss Brownings.\"\n\n\"Then I'll bring them to you. I know the Miss Brownings; they used\nto come regularly on the school-day to the Towers. Pecksy and Flapsy\nI used to call them. I like the Miss Brownings; one gets enough of\nrespect from them at any rate; and I've always wanted to see the\nkind of _ménage_ of such people. I'll bring you a whole pile of Miss\nEdgeworth's stories, my dear.\"\n\nMolly sate quite silent for a minute or two; then she mustered up\ncourage to speak out what was in her mind.\n\n\"Your ladyship\" (the title was the firstfruits of the lesson, as\nMolly took it, on paying due respect)--\"your ladyship keeps speaking\nof the sort of--the class of people to which I belong as if it was a\nkind of strange animal you were talking about; yet you talk so openly\nto me that--\"\n\n\"Well, go on--I like to hear you.\"\n\nStill silence.\n\n\"You think me in your heart a little impertinent--now, don't you?\"\nsaid Lady Harriet, almost kindly.\n\nMolly held her peace for two or three moments; then she lifted her\nbeautiful, honest eyes to Lady Harriet's face, and said,--\n\n\"Yes!--a little. But I think you a great many other things.\"\n\n\"We'll leave the 'other things' for the present. Don't you see,\nlittle one, I talk after my kind, just as you talk after your kind.\nIt's only on the surface with both of us. Why, I daresay some of your\ngood Hollingford ladies talk of the poor people in a manner which\nthey would consider as impertinent in their turn, if they could hear\nit. But I ought to be more considerate when I remember how often\nmy blood has boiled at the modes of speech and behaviour of one of\nmy aunts, mamma's sister, Lady-- No! I won't name names. Any one\nwho earns his livelihood by any exercise of head or hands, from\nprofessional people and rich merchants down to labourers, she calls\n'persons.' She would never in her most slip-slop talk accord them\neven the conventional title of 'gentlemen;' and the way in which\nshe takes possession of human beings, 'my woman,' 'my people,'--but,\nafter all, it is only a way of speaking. I ought not to have used\nit to you; but somehow I separate you from all these Hollingford\npeople.\"\n\n\"But why?\" persevered Molly. \"I'm one of them.\"\n\n\"Yes, you are. But--now don't reprove me again for impertinence--most\nof them are so unnatural in their exaggerated respect and admiration\nwhen they come up to the Towers, and put on so much pretence by way\nof fine manners, that they only make themselves objects of ridicule.\nYou at least are simple and truthful, and that's why I separate you\nin my own mind from them, and have talked unconsciously to you as I\nwould--well! now here's another piece of impertinence--as I would to\nmy equal--in rank, I mean; for I don't set myself up in solid things\nas any better than my neighbours. Here's tea, however, come in time\nto stop me from growing too humble.\"\n\nIt was a very pleasant little tea in the fading September twilight.\n\nJust as it was ended, in came Mr. Preston again:--\n\n\"Lady Harriet, will you allow me the pleasure of showing you some\nalterations I have made in the flower-garden--in which I have tried\nto consult your taste--before it grows dark?\"\n\n\n[Illustration: UNWELCOME ATTENTIONS.]\n\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Preston. I will ride over with papa some day, and we\nwill see if we approve of them.\"\n\nMr. Preston's brow flushed. But he affected not to perceive Lady\nHarriet's haughtiness, and, turning to Molly, he said,--\n\n\"Will not you come out, Miss Gibson, and see something of the\ngardens? You haven't been out at all, I think, excepting to church.\"\n\nMolly did not like the idea of going out for a walk with only Mr.\nPreston; yet she pined for a little fresh air, would have been glad\nto see the gardens, and look at the Manor-house from different\naspects; and, besides this, much as she recoiled from Mr. Preston,\nshe felt sorry for him under the repulse he had just received.\n\nWhile she was hesitating, and slowly tending towards consent, Lady\nHarriet spoke,--\n\n\"I cannot spare Miss Gibson. If she would like to see the place, I\nwill bring her over some day myself.\"\n\nWhen he had left the room, Lady Harriet said,--\"I daresay it's my own\nlazy selfishness has kept you indoors all day against your will. But,\nat any rate, you are not to go out walking with that man. I've an\ninstinctive aversion to him; not entirely instinctive either; it has\nsome foundation in fact; and I desire you don't allow him ever to get\nintimate with you. He's a very clever land-agent, and does his duty\nby papa, and I don't choose to be taken up for libel; but remember\nwhat I say!\"\n\nThen the carriage came round, and after numberless last words from\nthe earl--who appeared to have put off every possible direction to\nthe moment when he stood, like an awkward Mercury, balancing himself\non the step of the carriage--they drove back to the Towers.\n\n\"Would you rather come in and dine with us--we should send you home,\nof course--or go home straight?\" asked Lady Harriet of Molly. She and\nher father had both been sleeping till they drew up at the bottom of\nthe flight of steps.\n\n\"Tell the truth, now and evermore. Truth is generally amusing, if\nit's nothing else!\"\n\n\"I would rather go back to Miss Brownings' at once, please,\" said\nMolly, with a nightmare-like recollection of the last, the only\nevening she had spent at the Towers.\n\nLord Cumnor was standing on the steps, waiting to hand his daughter\nout of the carriage. Lady Harriet stopped to kiss Molly on the\nforehead, and to say,--\n\n\"I shall come some day soon, and bring you a load of Miss Edgeworth's\ntales, and make further acquaintance with Pecksy and Flapsy.\"\n\n\"No, don't, please,\" said Molly, taking hold of her, to detain her.\n\"You must not come--indeed you must not.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I would rather not--because I think that I ought not to have\nany one coming to see me who laughs at the friends I am staying with,\nand calls them names.\" Molly's heart beat very fast, but she meant\nevery word that she said.\n\n\"My dear little woman!\" said Lady Harriet, bending over her and\nspeaking quite gravely. \"I'm very sorry to have called them\nnames--very, very sorry to have hurt you. If I promise you to be\nrespectful to them in word and in deed--and in very thought, if I\ncan--you'll let me then, won't you?\"\n\nMolly hesitated. \"I'd better go home at once; I shall only say wrong\nthings--and there's Lord Cumnor waiting all this time.\"\n\n\"Let him alone; he's very well amused hearing all the news of the day\nfrom Brown. Then I shall come--under promise?\"\n\nSo Molly drove off in solitary grandeur; and Miss Brownings' knocker\nwas loosened on its venerable hinges by the never-ending peal of Lord\nCumnor's footman.\n\nThey were full of welcome, full of curiosity. All through the long\nday they had been missing their bright young visitor, and three or\nfour times in every hour they had been wondering and settling what\neverybody was doing at that exact minute. What had become of Molly\nduring all the afternoon, had been a great perplexity to them; and\nthey were very much oppressed with a sense of the great honour she\nhad received in being allowed to spend so many hours alone with\nLady Harriet. They were, indeed, more excited by this one fact than\nby all the details of the wedding, most of which they had known\nof beforehand, and talked over with much perseverance during the\nday. Molly began to feel as if there was some foundation for Lady\nHarriet's inclination to ridicule the worship paid by the good people\nof Hollingford to their liege lord, and to wonder with what tokens\nof reverence they would receive Lady Harriet if she came to pay her\npromised visit. She had never thought of concealing the probability\nof this call until this evening; but now she felt as if it would be\nbetter not to speak of the chance, as she was not at all sure that\nthe promise would be fulfilled.\n\nBefore Lady Harriet's call was paid, Molly received another visit.\n\nRoger Hamley came riding over one day with a note from his mother,\nand a wasps'-nest as a present from himself. Molly heard his powerful\nvoice come sounding up the little staircase, as he asked if Miss\nGibson was at home from the servant-maid at the door; and she was\nhalf amused and half annoyed as she thought how this call of his\nwould give colour to Miss Browning's fancies. \"I would rather never\nbe married at all,\" thought she, \"than marry an ugly man,--and dear\ngood Mr. Roger is really ugly; I don't think one could even call him\nplain.\" Yet Miss Brownings, who did not look upon young men as if\ntheir natural costume was a helmet and a suit of armour, thought\nMr. Roger Hamley a very personable young fellow, as he came into\nthe room, his face flushed with exercise, his white teeth showing\npleasantly in the courteous bow and smile he gave to all around. He\nknew the Miss Brownings slightly, and talked pleasantly to them while\nMolly read Mrs. Hamley's little missive of sympathy and good wishes\nrelating to the wedding; then he turned to her, and though Miss\nBrownings listened with all their ears, they could not find out\nanything remarkable either in the words he said or the tone in which\nthey were spoken.\n\n\"I've brought you the wasps'-nest I promised you, Miss Gibson. There\nhas been no lack of such things this year; we've taken seventy-four\non my father's land alone; and one of the labourers, a poor fellow\nwho ekes out his wages by bee-keeping, has had a sad misfortune--the\nwasps have turned the bees out of his seven hives, taken possession,\nand eaten up the honey.\"\n\n\"What greedy little vermin!\" said Miss Browning.\n\nMolly saw Roger's eyes twinkle at the misapplication of the word; but\nthough he had a strong sense of humour, it never appeared to diminish\nhis respect for the people who amused him.\n\n\"I'm sure they deserve fire and brimstone more than the poor dear\ninnocent bees,\" said Miss Phoebe. \"And then it seems so ungrateful\nof mankind, who are going to feast on the honey!\" She sighed over the\nthought, as if it was too much for her.\n\nWhile Molly finished reading her note, he explained its contents to\nMiss Browning.\n\n\"My brother and I are going with my father to an agricultural meeting\nat Canonbury on Thursday, and my mother desired me to say to you how\nvery much obliged she should be if you would spare her Miss Gibson\nfor the day. She was very anxious to ask for the pleasure of your\ncompany, too, but she really is so poorly that we persuaded her to\nbe content with Miss Gibson, as she wouldn't scruple leaving a young\nlady to amuse herself, which she would be unwilling to do if you and\nyour sister were there.\"\n\n\"I'm sure she's very kind; very. Nothing would have given us more\npleasure,\" said Miss Browning, drawing herself up in gratified\ndignity. \"Oh, yes, we quite understand, Mr. Roger; and we fully\nrecognize Mrs. Hamley's kind intention. We will take the will for the\ndeed, as the common people express it. I believe that there was an\nintermarriage between the Brownings and the Hamleys, a generation or\ntwo ago.\"\n\n\"I daresay there was,\" said Roger. \"My mother is very delicate, and\nobliged to humour her health, which has made her keep aloof from\nsociety.\"\n\n\"Then I may go?\" said Molly, sparkling with the idea of seeing her\ndear Mrs. Hamley again, yet afraid of appearing too desirous of\nleaving her kind old friends.\n\n\"To be sure, my dear. Write a pretty note, and tell Mrs. Hamley how\nmuch obliged to her we are for thinking of us.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I can't wait for a note,\" said Roger. \"I must take a\nmessage instead, for I have to meet my father at one o'clock, and\nit's close upon it now.\"\n\nWhen he was gone, Molly felt so light-hearted at the thoughts of\nThursday that she could hardly attend to what the Miss Brownings were\nsaying. One was talking about the pretty muslin gown which Molly had\nsent to the wash only that morning, and contriving how it could be\nhad back again in time for her to wear; and the other, Miss Phoebe,\ntotally inattentive to her sister's speaking for a wonder, was piping\nout a separate strain of her own, and singing Roger Hamley's praises.\n\n\"Such a fine-looking young man, and so courteous and affable. Like\nthe young men of our youth now, is he not, sister? And yet they all\nsay Mr. Osborne is the handsomest. What do you think, child?\"\n\n\"I've never seen Mr. Osborne,\" said Molly, blushing, and hating\nherself for doing so. Why was it? She had never seen him as she said.\nIt was only that her fancy had dwelt on him so much.\n\nHe was gone--all the gentlemen were gone before the carriage, which\ncame to fetch Molly on Thursday, reached Hamley Hall. But Molly was\nalmost glad, she was so much afraid of being disappointed. Besides,\nshe had her dear Mrs. Hamley the more to herself; the quiet sit in\nthe morning-room, talking poetry and romance; the midday saunter into\nthe garden, brilliant with autumnal flowers and glittering dew-drops\non the gossamer webs that stretched from scarlet to blue, and thence\nto purple and yellow petals. As they were sitting at lunch, a strange\nman's voice and step were heard in the hall; the door was opened,\nand a young man came in, who could be no other than Osborne. He was\nbeautiful and languid-looking, almost as frail in appearance as\nhis mother, whom he strongly resembled. This seeming delicacy made\nhim appear older than he was. He was dressed to perfection, and\nyet with easy carelessness. He came up to his mother, and stood by\nher, holding her hand, while his eyes sought Molly, not boldly or\nimpertinently, but as if appraising her critically.\n\n\"Yes! I'm back again. Bullocks, I find, are not in my line. I\nonly disappointed my father in not being able to appreciate their\nmerits, and, I'm afraid, I didn't care to learn. And the smell was\ninsufferable on such a hot day.\"\n\n\"My dear boy, don't make apologies to me; keep them for your father.\nI'm only too glad to have you back. Miss Gibson, this tall fellow is\nmy son Osborne, as I daresay you have guessed. Osborne--Miss Gibson.\nNow, what will you have?\"\n\nHe looked round the table as he sate down. \"Nothing here,\" said he.\n\"Isn't there some cold game-pie? I'll ring for that.\"\n\nMolly was trying to reconcile the ideal with the real. The ideal was\nagile, yet powerful, with Greek features and an eagle-eye, capable\nof enduring long fasting, and indifferent as to what he ate. The\nreal was almost effeminate in movement, though not in figure; he had\nthe Greek features, but his blue eyes had a cold, weary expression\nin them. He was dainty in eating, and had anything but a Homeric\nappetite. However, Molly's hero was not to eat more than Ivanhoe,\nwhen he was Friar Tuck's guest; and, after all, with a little\nalteration, she began to think Mr. Osborne Hamley might turn out a\npoetical, if not a chivalrous hero. He was extremely attentive to\nhis mother, which pleased Molly, and, in return, Mrs. Hamley seemed\ncharmed with him to such a degree that Molly once or twice fancied\nthat mother and son would have been happier in her absence. Yet,\nagain, it struck on the shrewd, if simple girl, that Osborne was\nmentally squinting at her in the conversation which was directed to\nhis mother. There were little turns and 'fioriture' of speech which\nMolly could not help feeling were graceful antics of language not\ncommon in the simple daily intercourse between mother and son. But\nit was flattering rather than otherwise to perceive that a very fine\nyoung man, who was a poet to boot, should think it worth while to\ntalk on the tight rope for her benefit. And before the afternoon was\nended, without there having been any direct conversation between\nOsborne and Molly, she had reinstated him on his throne in her\nimagination; indeed, she had almost felt herself disloyal to her dear\nMrs. Hamley when, in the first hour after her introduction, she had\nquestioned his claims on his mother's idolatry. His beauty came out\nmore and more, as he became animated in some discussion with her; and\nall his attitudes, if a little studied, were graceful in the extreme.\nBefore Molly left, the squire and Roger returned from Canonbury.\n\n\"Osborne here!\" said the Squire, red and panting. \"Why the deuce\ncouldn't you tell us you were coming home? I looked about for you\neverywhere, just as we were going into the ordinary. I wanted to\nintroduce you to Grantley, and Fox, and Lord Forrest--men from the\nother side of the county, whom you ought to know; and Roger there\nmissed above half his dinner hunting about for you; and all the time\nyou'd stole away, and were quietly sitting here with the women. I\nwish you'd let me know the next time you make off. I've lost half my\npleasure in looking at as fine a lot of cattle as I ever saw, with\nthinking you might be having one of your old attacks of faintness.\"\n\n\"I should have had one, I think, if I'd stayed longer in that\natmosphere. But I'm sorry if I've caused you anxiety.\"\n\n\"Well! well!\" said the Squire, somewhat mollified. \"And Roger,\ntoo,--there I've been sending him here and sending him there all the\nafternoon.\"\n\n\"I didn't mind it, sir. I was only sorry you were so uneasy. I\nthought Osborne had gone home, for I knew it wasn't much in his way,\"\nsaid Roger.\n\nMolly intercepted a glance between the two brothers--a look of true\nconfidence and love, which suddenly made her like them both under the\naspect of relationship--new to her observation.\n\nRoger came up to her, and sat down by her.\n\n\"Well, and how are you getting on with Huber; don't you find him very\ninteresting?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid,\" said Molly, penitently, \"I haven't read much. Miss\nBrownings like me to talk; and, besides, there is so much to do at\nhome before papa comes back; and Miss Browning doesn't like me to go\nwithout her. I know it sounds nothing, but it does take up a great\ndeal of time.\"\n\n\"When is your father coming back?\"\n\n\"Next Tuesday, I believe. He cannot stay long away.\"\n\n\"I shall ride over and pay my respects to Mrs. Gibson,\" said he. \"I\nshall come as soon as I may. Your father has been a very kind friend\nto me ever since I was a boy. And when I come, I shall expect my\npupil to have been very diligent,\" he concluded, smiling his kind,\npleasant smile at idle Molly.\n\nThen the carriage came round, and she had the long solitary drive\nback to Miss Brownings'. It was dark out of doors when she got there;\nbut Miss Phoebe was standing on the stairs, with a lighted candle\nin her hand, peering into the darkness to see Molly come in.\n\n\"Oh, Molly! I thought you'd never come back. Such a piece of news!\nSister has gone to bed; she's had a headache--with the excitement,\nI think; but she says it's new bread. Come upstairs softly, my\ndear, and I'll tell you what it is! Who do you think has been\nhere,--drinking tea with us, too, in the most condescending manner?\"\n\n\"Lady Harriet?\" said Molly, suddenly enlightened by the word\n\"condescending.\"\n\n\"Yes. Why, how did you guess it? But, after all, her call, at any\nrate in the first instance, was upon you. Oh, dear Molly! if you're\nnot in a hurry to go to bed, let me sit down quietly and tell you all\nabout it; for my heart jumps into my mouth still when I think of how\nI was caught. She--that is, her ladyship--left the carriage at 'The\nGeorge,' and took to her feet to go shopping--just as you or I may\nhave done many a time in our lives. And sister was taking her forty\nwinks; and I was sitting with my gown up above my knees and my feet\non the fender, pulling out my grandmother's lace which I'd been\nwashing. The worst has yet to be told. I'd taken off my cap, for I\nthought it was getting dusk and no one would come, and there was I in\nmy black silk skull-cap, when Nancy put her head in, and whispered,\n'There's a lady downstairs--a real grand one, by her talk;' and in\nthere came my Lady Harriet, so sweet and pretty in her ways, it was\nsome time before I remembered I had never a cap on. Sister never\nwakened; or never roused up, so to say. She says she thought it was\nNancy bringing in the tea when she heard some one moving; for her\nladyship, as soon as she saw the state of the case, came and knelt\ndown on the rug by me, and begged my pardon so prettily for having\nfollowed Nancy upstairs without waiting for permission; and was so\ntaken by my old lace, and wanted to know how I washed it, and where\nyou were, and when you'd be back, and when the happy couple would be\nback: till sister wakened--she's always a little bit put out, you\nknow, when she first wakens from her afternoon nap,--and, without\nturning her head to see who it was, she said, quite sharp,--'Buzz,\nbuzz, buzz! When will you learn that whispering is more fidgeting\nthan talking out loud? I've not been able to sleep at all for the\nchatter you and Nancy have been keeping up all this time.' You know\nthat was a little fancy of sister's, for she'd been snoring away as\nnaturally as could be. So I went to her, and leant over her, and said\nin a low voice,--\n\n\"'Sister, it's her ladyship and me that has been conversing.'\n\n\"'Ladyship here, ladyship there! have you lost your wits, Phoebe,\nthat you talk such nonsense--and in your skull-cap, too!'\n\n\"By this time she was sitting up--and, looking round her, she saw\nLady Harriet, in her velvets and silks, sitting on our rug, smiling,\nher bonnet off, and her pretty hair all bright with the blaze of the\nfire. My word! sister was up on her feet directly; and she dropped\nher curtsey, and made her excuses for sleeping, as fast as might be,\nwhile I went off to put on my best cap, for sister might well say I\nwas out of my wits to go on chatting to an earl's daughter in an old\nblack silk skull-cap. Black silk, too! when, if I'd only known she\nwas coming, I might have put on my new brown silk one, lying idle in\nmy top drawer. And when I came back, sister was ordering tea for her\nladyship,--our tea, I mean. So I took my turn at talk, and sister\nslipped out to put on her Sunday silk. But I don't think we were\nquite so much at our ease with her ladyship as when I sat pulling\nout my lace in my skull-cap. And she was quite struck with our tea,\nand asked where we got it, for she had never tasted any like it\nbefore; and I told her we gave only 3_s._ 4_d._ a pound for it, at\nJohnson's--(sister says I ought to have told her the price of our\ncompany-tea, which is 5_s._ a pound, only that was not what we were\ndrinking; for, as ill-luck would have it, we'd none of it in the\nhouse)--and she said she would send us some of hers, all the way\nfrom Russia or Prussia, or some out-of-the-way place, and we were to\ncompare and see which we liked best; and if we liked hers best, she\ncould get it for us at 3_s._ a pound. And she left her love for you;\nand, though she was going away, you were not to forget her. Sister\nthought such a message would set you up too much, and told me she\nwould not be chargeable for the giving it you. 'But,' I said, 'a\nmessage is a message, and it's on Molly's own shoulders if she's set\nup by it. Let us show her an example of humility, sister, though we\nhave been sitting cheek-by-jowl in such company.' So sister humphed,\nand said she'd a headache, and went to bed. And now you may tell me\nyour news, my dear.\"\n\nSo Molly told her small events; which, interesting as they might\nhave been at other times to the gossip-loving and sympathetic Miss\nPhoebe, were rather pale in the stronger light reflected from the\nvisit of an earl's daughter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nTHE NEW MAMMA.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nOn Tuesday afternoon Molly returned home--to the home which was\nalready strange, and what Warwickshire people would call \"unked,\"\nto her. New paint, new paper, new colours; grim servants dressed\nin their best, and objecting to every change--from their master's\nmarriage to the new oilcloth in the hall, \"which tripped 'em up, and\nthrew 'em down, and was cold to the feet, and smelt just abominable.\"\nAll these complaints Molly had to listen to, and it was not a\ncheerful preparation for the reception which she already felt to be\nso formidable.\n\nThe sound of their carriage-wheels was heard at last, and Molly went\nto the front door to meet them. Her father got out first, and took\nher hand and held it while he helped his bride to alight. Then he\nkissed her fondly, and passed her on to his wife; but her veil was so\nsecurely (and becomingly) fastened down, that it was some time before\nMrs. Gibson could get her lips clear to greet her new daughter. Then\nthere was luggage to be seen about; and both the travellers were\noccupied in this, while Molly stood by trembling with excitement,\nunable to help, and only conscious of Betty's rather cross looks, as\nheavy box after heavy box jammed up the passage.\n\n\"Molly, my dear, show--your mamma to her room!\"\n\nMr. Gibson had hesitated, because the question of the name by\nwhich Molly was to call her new relation had never occurred to him\nbefore. The colour flashed into Molly's face. Was she to call her\n\"mamma?\"--the name long appropriated in her mind to some one else--to\nher own dead mother. The rebellious heart rose against it, but she\nsaid nothing. She led the way upstairs, Mrs. Gibson turning round,\nfrom time to time, with some fresh direction as to which bag or trunk\nshe needed most. She hardly spoke to Molly till they were both in\nthe newly-furnished bedroom, where a small fire had been lighted by\nMolly's orders.\n\n\"Now, my love, we can embrace each other in peace. O dear, how tired\nI am!\"--(after the embrace had been accomplished). \"My spirits are so\neasily affected with fatigue; but your dear papa has been kindness\nitself. Dear! what an old-fashioned bed! And what a-- But it doesn't\nsignify. By-and-by we'll renovate the house--won't we, my dear? And\nyou'll be my little maid to-night, and help me to arrange a few\nthings, for I'm just worn out with the day's journey.\"\n\n\"I've ordered a sort of tea-dinner to be ready for you,\" said Molly.\n\"Shall I go and tell them to send it in?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure if I can go down again to-night. It would be very\ncomfortable to have a little table brought in here, and sit in my\ndressing-gown by this cheerful fire. But, to be sure, there's your\ndear papa? I really don't think he would eat anything if I were not\nthere. One must not think about oneself, you know. Yes, I'll come\ndown in a quarter of an hour.\"\n\nBut Mr. Gibson had found a note awaiting him, with an immediate\nsummons to an old patient, dangerously ill; and, snatching a mouthful\nof food while his horse was being saddled, he had to resume at once\nhis old habits of attention to his profession above everything.\n\nAs soon as Mrs. Gibson found that he was not likely to miss her\npresence--he had eaten a very tolerable lunch of bread and cold meat\nin solitude, so her fears about his appetite in her absence were not\nwell founded--she desired to have her meal upstairs in her own room;\nand poor Molly, not daring to tell the servants of this whim, had to\ncarry up first a table, which, however small, was too heavy for her;\nand afterwards all the choice portions of the meal, which she had\ntaken great pains to arrange on the table, as she had seen such\nthings done at Hamley, intermixed with fruit and flowers that had\nthat morning been sent in from various great houses where Mr. Gibson\nwas respected and valued. How pretty Molly had thought her handiwork\nan hour or two before! How dreary it seemed as, at last released from\nMrs. Gibson's conversation, she sate down in solitude to cold tea and\nthe drumsticks of the chicken! No one to look at her preparations,\nand admire her deft-handedness and taste! She had thought that her\nfather would be gratified by it, and then he had never seen it. She\nhad meant her cares as an offering of good-will to her stepmother,\nwho even now was ringing her bell to have the tray taken away, and\nMiss Gibson summoned to her bedroom.\n\nMolly hastily finished her meal, and went upstairs again.\n\n\"I feel so lonely, darling, in this strange house; do come and be\nwith me, and help me to unpack. I think your dear papa might have put\noff his visit to Mr. Craven Smith for just this one evening.\"\n\n\"Mr. Craven Smith couldn't put off his dying,\" said Molly, bluntly.\n\n\"You droll girl!\" said Mrs. Gibson, with a faint laugh. \"But if this\nMr. Smith is dying, as you say, what's the use of your father's going\noff to him in such a hurry? Does he expect any legacy, or anything of\nthat kind?\"\n\nMolly bit her lips to prevent herself from saying something\ndisagreeable. She only answered,--\n\n\"I don't quite know that he is dying. The man said so; and papa can\nsometimes do something to make the last struggle easier. At any rate,\nit's always a comfort to the family to have him.\"\n\n\"What dreary knowledge of death you have learned for a girl of your\nage! Really, if I had heard all these details of your father's\nprofession, I doubt if I could have brought myself to have him!\"\n\n\"He doesn't make the illness or the death; he does his best against\nthem. I call it a very fine thing to think of what he does or tries\nto do. And you will think so, too, when you see how he is watched\nfor, and how people welcome him!\"\n\n\"Well, don't let us talk any more of such gloomy things, to-night! I\nthink I shall go to bed at once, I am so tired, if you will only sit\nby me till I get sleepy, darling. If you will talk to me, the sound\nof your voice will soon send me off.\"\n\nMolly got a book, and read her stepmother to sleep, preferring that\nto the harder task of keeping up a continual murmur of speech.\n\nThen she stole down and went into the dining-room, where the fire\nwas gone out; purposely neglected by the servants, to mark their\ndispleasure at their new mistress's having had her tea in her own\nroom. Molly managed to light it, however, before her father came\nhome, and collected and re-arranged some comfortable food for him.\nThen she knelt down again on the hearth-rug, gazing into the fire in\na dreamy reverie, which had enough of sadness about it to cause the\ntears to drop unnoticed from her eyes. But she jumped up, and shook\nherself into brightness at the sound of her father's step.\n\n\"How is Mr. Craven Smith?\" said she.\n\n\"Dead. He just recognized me. He was one of my first patients on\ncoming to Hollingford.\"\n\nMr. Gibson sate down in the arm-chair made ready for him, and warmed\nhis hands at the fire, seeming neither to need food nor talk, as he\nwent over a train of recollections. Then he roused himself from his\nsadness, and looking round the room, he said briskly enough,--\n\n\"And where's the new mamma?\"\n\n\"She was tired, and went to bed early. Oh, papa! must I call her\n'mamma?'\"\n\n\"I should like it,\" replied he, with a slight contraction of the\nbrows.\n\nMolly was silent. She put a cup of tea near him; he stirred it, and\nsipped it, and then he recurred to the subject.\n\n\"Why shouldn't you call her 'mamma?' I'm sure she means to do the\nduty of a mother to you. We all may make mistakes, and her ways may\nnot be quite all at once our ways; but at any rate let us start with\na family bond between us.\"\n\nWhat would Roger say was right?--that was the question that rose to\nMolly's mind. She had always spoken of her father's new wife as Mrs.\nGibson, and had once burst out at Miss Brownings with a protestation\nthat she never would call her \"mamma.\" She did not feel drawn to her\nnew relation by their intercourse that evening. She kept silence,\nthough she knew her father was expecting an answer. At last he\ngave up his expectation, and turned to another subject; told about\ntheir journey, questioned her as to the Hamleys, the Brownings,\nLady Harriet, and the afternoon they had passed together at the\nManor-house. But there was a certain hardness and constraint in his\nmanner, and in hers a heaviness and absence of mind. All at once she\nsaid,--\n\n\"Papa, I will call her 'mamma!'\"\n\nHe took her hand, and grasped it tight; but for an instant or two he\ndid not speak. Then he said,--\n\n\"You won't be sorry for it, Molly, when you come to lie as poor\nCraven Smith did to-night.\"\n\nFor some time the murmurs and grumblings of the two elder servants\nwere confined to Molly's ears, then they spread to her father's, who,\nto Molly's dismay, made summary work with them.\n\n\"You don't like Mrs. Gibson's ringing her bell so often, don't you?\nYou've been spoilt, I'm afraid; but if you don't conform to my wife's\ndesires, you have the remedy in your own hands, you know.\"\n\nWhat servant ever resisted the temptation to give warning after such\na speech as that? Betty told Molly she was going to leave, in as\nindifferent a manner as she could possibly assume towards the girl\nwhom she had tended and been about for the last sixteen years. Molly\nhad hitherto considered her former nurse as a fixture in the house;\nshe would almost as soon have thought of her father's proposing\nto sever the relationship between them; and here was Betty coolly\ntalking over whether her next place should be in town or country. But\na great deal of this was assumed hardness. In a week or two Betty was\nin floods of tears at the prospect of leaving her nursling, and would\nfain have stayed and answered all the bells in the house once every\nquarter of an hour. Even Mr. Gibson's masculine heart was touched by\nthe sorrow of the old servant, which made itself obvious to him every\ntime he came across her by her broken voice and her swollen eyes.\n\nOne day he said to Molly, \"I wish you'd ask your mamma if Betty might\nnot stay, if she made a proper apology, and all that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"I don't much think it will be of any use,\" said Molly, in a mournful\nvoice. \"I know she is writing, or has written, about some\nunder-housemaid at the Towers.\"\n\n\"Well!--all I want is peace and a decent quantity of cheerfulness\nwhen I come home. I see enough of tears at other people's houses.\nAfter all, Betty has been with us sixteen years--a sort of service\nof the antique world. But the woman may be happier elsewhere. Do as\nyou like about asking mamma; only if she agrees, I shall be quite\nwilling.\"\n\nSo Molly tried her hand at making a request to that effect to Mrs.\nGibson. Her instinct told her she would be unsuccessful; but surely\nfavour was never refused in so soft a tone.\n\n\"My dear girl, I should never have thought of sending an old servant\naway,--one who has had the charge of you from your birth, or nearly\nso. I could not have had the heart to do it. She might have stayed\nfor ever for me, if she had only attended to all my wishes; and I am\nnot unreasonable, am I? But, you see, she complained; and when your\ndear papa spoke to her, she gave warning; and it is quite against\nmy principles ever to take an apology from a servant who has given\nwarning.\"\n\n\"She is so sorry,\" pleaded Molly; \"she says she will do anything you\nwish, and attend to all your orders, if she may only stay.\"\n\n\"But, sweet one, you seem to forget that I cannot go against my\nprinciples, however much I may be sorry for Betty. She should not\nhave given way to ill-temper. As I said before, although I never\nliked her, and considered her a most inefficient servant, thoroughly\nspoilt by having had no mistress for so long, I should have borne\nwith her--at least, I think I should--as long as I could. Now I have\nall but engaged Maria, who was under-housemaid at the Towers, so\ndon't let me hear any more of Betty's sorrow, or anybody else's\nsorrow, for I'm sure, what with your dear papa's sad stories and\nother things, I'm getting quite low.\"\n\nMolly was silent for a moment or two.\n\n\"Have you quite engaged Maria?\" asked she.\n\n\"No--I said 'all but engaged.' Sometimes one would think you did not\nhear things, dear Molly!\" replied Mrs. Gibson, petulantly. \"Maria\nis living in a place where they don't give her as much wages as she\ndeserves. Perhaps they can't afford it, poor things! I'm always sorry\nfor poverty, and would never speak hardly of those who are not rich;\nbut I have offered her two pounds more than she gets at present, so I\nthink she'll leave. At any rate, if they increase her wages, I shall\nincrease my offer in proportion; so I think I'm sure to get her. Such\na genteel girl!--always brings in a letter on a salver!\"\n\n\"Poor Betty!\" said Molly, softly.\n\n\"Poor old soul! I hope she'll profit by the lesson, I'm sure,\" sighed\nout Mrs. Gibson; \"but it's a pity we hadn't Maria before the county\nfamilies began to call.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson had been highly gratified by the circumstance of so many\ncalls \"from county families.\" Her husband was much respected; and\nmany ladies from various halls, courts, and houses, who had profited\nby his services towards themselves and their families, thought it\nright to pay his new wife the attention of a call when they drove\ninto Hollingford to shop. The state of expectation into which these\ncalls threw Mrs. Gibson rather diminished Mr. Gibson's domestic\ncomfort. It was awkward to be carrying hot, savoury-smelling dishes\nfrom the kitchen to the dining-room at the very time when high-born\nladies, with noses of aristocratic refinement, might be calling.\nStill more awkward was the accident which happened in consequence\nof clumsy Betty's haste to open the front door to a lofty footman's\nran-tan, which caused her to set down the basket containing the dirty\nplates right in his mistress's way, as she stepped gingerly through\nthe comparative darkness of the hall; and then the young men, leaving\nthe dining-room quietly enough, but bursting with long-repressed\ngiggle, or no longer restraining their tendency to practical joking,\nno matter who might be in the passage when they made their exit. The\nremedy proposed by Mrs. Gibson for all these distressing grievances\nwas a late dinner. The luncheon for the young men, as she observed\nto her husband, might be sent into the surgery. A few elegant cold\ntrifles for herself and Molly would not scent the house, and she\nwould always take care to have some little dainty ready for him. He\nacceded, but unwillingly, for it was an innovation on the habits of\na lifetime, and he felt as if he should never be able to arrange his\nrounds aright with this new-fangled notion of a six o'clock dinner.\n\n\"Don't get any dainties for me, my dear; bread-and-cheese is the\nchief of my diet, like it was that of the old woman's.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of your old woman,\" replied his wife; \"but really I\ncannot allow cheese to come beyond the kitchen.\"\n\n\"Then I'll eat it there,\" said he. \"It's close to the stable-yard,\nand if I come in in a hurry I can get it in a moment.\"\n\n\"Really, Mr. Gibson, it is astonishing to compare your appearance and\nmanners with your tastes. You look such a gentleman, as dear Lady\nCumnor used to say.\"\n\nThen the cook left; also an old servant, though not so old a one as\nBetty. The cook did not like the trouble of late dinners; and, being\na Methodist, she objected on religious grounds to trying any of\nMrs. Gibson's new receipts for French dishes. It was not scriptural,\nshe said. There was a deal of mention of food in the Bible; but it\nwas of sheep ready dressed, which meant mutton, and of wine, and\nof bread-and-milk, and figs and raisins, of fatted calves, a good\nwell-browned fillet of veal, and such like; but it had always gone\nagainst her conscience to cook swine-flesh and make raised pork-pies,\nand now if she was to be set to cook heathen dishes after the fashion\nof the Papists, she'd sooner give it all up together. So the cook\nfollowed in Betty's track, and Mr. Gibson had to satisfy his healthy\nEnglish appetite on badly-made omelettes, rissoles, vol-au-vents,\ncroquets, and timbales; never being exactly sure what he was eating.\n\nHe had made up his mind before his marriage to yield in trifles,\nand be firm in greater things. But the differences of opinion about\ntrifles arose every day, and were perhaps more annoying than if they\nhad related to things of more consequence. Molly knew her father's\nlooks as well as she knew her alphabet; his wife did not; and being\nan unperceptive person, except when her own interests were dependent\nupon another person's humour, never found out how he was worried by\nall the small daily concessions which he made to her will or her\nwhims. He never allowed himself to put any regret into shape, even\nin his own mind; he repeatedly reminded himself of his wife's good\nqualities, and comforted himself by thinking they should work\ntogether better as time rolled on; but he was very angry at a\nbachelor great-uncle of Mr. Coxe's, who, after taking no notice of\nhis red-headed nephew for years, suddenly sent for him, after the old\nman had partially recovered from a serious attack of illness, and\nappointed him his heir, on condition that his great-nephew remained\nwith him during the rest of his life. This had happened almost\ndirectly after Mr. and Mrs. Gibson's return from their wedding\njourney, and once or twice since that time Mr. Gibson had found\nhimself wondering why the deuce old Benson could not have made\nup his mind sooner, and so have rid his house of the unwelcome\npresence of the young lover. To do Mr. Coxe justice, in the very\nlast conversation he had as a pupil with Mr. Gibson he said, with\nhesitating awkwardness, that perhaps the new circumstances in which\nhe should be placed might make some difference with regard to Mr.\nGibson's opinion on--\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Mr. Gibson, quickly. \"You are both of you too\nyoung to know your own minds; and if my daughter was silly enough to\nbe in love, she should never have to calculate her happiness on the\nchances of an old man's death. I dare say he'll disinherit you after\nall. He may do, and then you'd be worse off than ever. No! go away,\nand forget all this nonsense; and when you've done, come back and see\nus!\"\n\nSo Mr. Coxe went away, with an oath of unalterable faithfulness in\nhis heart; and Mr. Gibson had unwillingly to fulfil an old promise\nmade to a gentleman farmer in the neighbourhood a year or two before,\nand to take the second son of Mr. Browne in young Coxe's place. He\nwas to be the last of the race of pupils, and as he was rather more\nthan a year younger than Molly, Mr. Gibson trusted that there would\nbe no repetition of the Coxe romance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nTHE BRIDE AT HOME.\n\n\nAmong the \"county people\" (as Mrs. Gibson termed them) who called\nupon her as a bride, were the two young Mr. Hamleys. The Squire,\ntheir father, had done his congratulations, as far as he ever\nintended to do them, to Mr. Gibson himself when he came to the hall;\nbut Mrs. Hamley, unable to go and pay visits herself, anxious to show\nattention to her kind doctor's new wife, and with perhaps a little\nsympathetic curiosity as to how Molly and her stepmother got on\ntogether, made her sons ride over to Hollingford with her cards and\napologies. They came into the newly-furnished drawing-room, looking\nbright and fresh from their ride: Osborne first, as usual, perfectly\ndressed for the occasion, and with the sort of fine manner which\nsate so well upon him; Roger, looking like a strong-built, cheerful,\nintelligent country farmer, followed in his brother's train. Mrs.\nGibson was dressed for receiving callers, and made the effect she\nalways intended to produce, of a very pretty woman, no longer in\nfirst youth, but with such soft manners and such a caressing voice,\nthat people forgot to wonder what her real age might be. Molly was\nbetter dressed than formerly; her stepmother saw after that. She\ndisliked anything old or shabby, or out of taste about her; it hurt\nher eye; and she had already fidgeted Molly into a new amount of care\nabout the manner in which she put on her clothes, arranged her hair,\nand was gloved and shod. Mrs. Gibson had tried to put her through a\ncourse of rosemary washes and creams in order to improve her tanned\ncomplexion; but about that Molly was either forgetful or rebellious,\nand Mrs. Gibson could not well come up to the girl's bedroom every\nnight and see that she daubed her face and neck over with the\ncosmetics so carefully provided for her. Still her appearance was\nextremely improved, even to Osborne's critical eye. Roger sought\nrather to discover in her looks and expression whether she was happy\nor not; his mother had especially charged him to note all these\nsigns.\n\nOsborne and Mrs. Gibson made themselves agreeable to each other\naccording to the approved fashion when a young man calls on a\nmiddle-aged bride. They talked of the \"Shakspeare and musical\nglasses\" of the day, each vieing with the other in their knowledge\nof London topics. Molly heard fragments of their conversation in the\npauses of silence between Roger and herself. Her hero was coming\nout in quite a new character; no longer literary or poetical, or\nromantic, or critical, he was now full of the last new play, the\nsingers at the opera. He had the advantage over Mrs. Gibson, who, in\nfact, only spoke of these things from hearsay, from listening to the\ntalk at the Towers, while Osborne had run up from Cambridge two or\nthree times to hear this, or to see that wonder of the season. But\nshe had the advantage over him in greater boldness of invention to\neke out her facts; and besides she had more skill in the choice and\narrangement of her words, so as to make it appear as if the opinions\nthat were in reality quotations, were formed by herself from actual\nexperience or personal observation; such as, in speaking of the\nmannerisms of a famous Italian singer, she would ask,--\n\n\n[Illustration: SHAKSPEARE AND THE MUSICAL GLASSES.]\n\n\n\"Did you observe her constant trick of heaving her shoulders and\nclasping her hands together before she took a high note?\"--which was\nso said as to imply that Mrs. Gibson herself had noticed this trick.\nMolly, who had a pretty good idea by this time of how her stepmother\nhad passed the last year of her life, listened with no small\nbewilderment to this conversation; but at length decided that she\nmust misunderstand what they were saying, as she could not gather up\nthe missing links for the necessity of replying to Roger's questions\nand remarks. Osborne was not the same Osborne he was when with his\nmother at the Hall.\n\nRoger saw Molly glancing at his brother.\n\n\"You think my brother looking ill?\" said he, lowering his voice.\n\n\"No--not exactly.\"\n\n\"He is not well. Both my father and I are anxious about him.\nThat run on the Continent did him harm, instead of good; and his\ndisappointment at his examination has told upon him, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"I was not thinking he looked ill; only changed somehow.\"\n\n\"He says he must go back to Cambridge soon. Possibly it may do him\ngood; and I shall be off next week. This is a farewell visit to you,\nas well as one of congratulation to Mrs. Gibson.\"\n\n\"Your mother will feel your both going away, won't she? But of course\nyoung men will always have to live away from home.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied. \"Still she feels it a good deal; and I'm not\nsatisfied about her health either. You will go out and see her\nsometimes, will you? she is very fond of you.\"\n\n\"If I may,\" said Molly, unconsciously glancing at her stepmother. She\nhad an uncomfortable instinct that, in spite of Mrs. Gibson's own\nperpetual flow of words, she could, and did, hear everything that\nfell from Molly's lips.\n\n\"Do you want any more books?\" said he. \"If you do, make a list out,\nand send it to my mother before I leave, next Tuesday. After I am\ngone, there will be no one to go into the library and pick them out.\"\n\nAs soon as they had left, Mrs. Gibson began her usual comments on the\ndeparted visitors.\n\n\"I do like that Osborne Hamley! What a nice fellow he is! Somehow,\nI always do like eldest sons. He will have the estate, won't he? I\nshall ask your dear papa to encourage him to come about the house. He\nwill be a very good, very pleasant acquaintance for you and Cynthia.\nThe other is but a loutish young fellow, to my mind; there is no\naristocratic bearing about him. I suppose he takes after his mother,\nwho is but a parvenue, I've heard them say at the Towers.\"\n\nMolly was spiteful enough to have great pleasure in saying,--\n\n\"I think I've heard her father was a Russian merchant, and imported\ntallow and hemp. Mr. Osborne Hamley is extremely like her.\"\n\n\"Indeed! But there's no calculating these things. Anyhow, he is the\nperfect gentleman in appearance and manner. The estate is entailed,\nis it not?\"\n\n\"I know nothing about it,\" said Molly.\n\nA short silence ensued. Then Mrs. Gibson said,--\n\n\"Do you know, I almost think I must get dear papa to give a little\ndinner-party, and ask Mr. Osborne Hamley? I should like to have him\nfeel at home in this house. It would be something cheerful for him\nafter the dulness and solitude of Hamley Hall. For the old people\ndon't visit much, I believe?\"\n\n\"He's going back to Cambridge next week,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Is he? Well, then, we'll put off our little dinner till Cynthia\ncomes home. I should like to have some young society for her, poor\ndarling, when she returns.\"\n\n\"When is she coming?\" said Molly, who had always a longing curiosity\nfor this same Cynthia's return.\n\n\"Oh! I'm not sure; perhaps at the new year--perhaps not till Easter.\nI must get this drawing-room all new furnished first; and then I mean\nto fit up her room and yours just alike. They are just the same size,\nonly on opposite sides of the passage.\"\n\n\"Are you going to new-furnish that room?\" said Molly, in astonishment\nat the never-ending changes.\n\n\"Yes; and yours, too, darling; so don't be jealous.\"\n\n\"Oh, please, mamma, not mine,\" said Molly, taking in the idea for the\nfirst time.\n\n\"Yes, dear! You shall have yours done as well. A little French bed,\nand a new paper, and a pretty carpet, and a dressed-up toilet-table\nand glass, will make it look quite a different place.\"\n\n\"But I don't want it to look different. I like it as it is. Pray\ndon't do anything to it.\"\n\n\"What nonsense, child! I never heard anything more ridiculous!\nMost girls would be glad to get rid of furniture only fit for the\nlumber-room.\"\n\n\"It was my own mamma's before she was married,\" said Molly, in a\nvery low voice; bringing out this last plea unwillingly, but with a\ncertainty that it would not be resisted.\n\nMrs. Gibson paused for a moment before she replied:\n\n\"It's very much to your credit that you should have such feelings,\nI'm sure. But don't you think sentiment may be carried too far? Why,\nwe should have no new furniture at all, and should have to put up\nwith worm-eaten horrors. Besides, my dear, Hollingford will seem very\ndull to Cynthia, after pretty, gay France, and I want to make the\nfirst impressions attractive. I've a notion I can settle her down\nnear here; and I want her to come in a good temper; for, between\nourselves, my dear, she is a little, leetle wilful. You need not\nmention this to your papa.\"\n\n\"But can't you do Cynthia's room, and not mine? Please let mine\nalone.\"\n\n\"No, indeed! I couldn't agree to that. Only think what would be said\nof me by everybody; petting my own child and neglecting my husband's!\nI couldn't bear it.\"\n\n\"No one need know.\"\n\n\"In such a tittle-tattle place as Hollingford! Really, Molly, you are\neither very stupid or very obstinate, or else you don't care what\nhard things may be said about me: and all for a selfish fancy of\nyour own! No! I owe myself the justice of acting in this matter as I\nplease. Every one shall know I'm not a common stepmother. Every penny\nI spend on Cynthia I shall spend on you too; so it's no use talking\nany more about it.\"\n\nSo Molly's little white dimity bed, her old-fashioned chest of\ndrawers, and her other cherished relics of her mother's maiden-days,\nwere consigned to the lumber-room; and after a while, when Cynthia\nand her great French boxes had come home, the old furniture that had\nfilled up the space required for the fresh importation of trunks,\ndisappeared likewise into the same room.\n\nAll this time the family at the Towers had been absent; Lady Cumnor\nhad been ordered to Bath for the early part of the winter, and her\nfamily were with her there. On dull rainy days, Mrs. Gibson used to\nbethink her of missing \"the Cumnors,\" for so she had taken to calling\nthem since her position had become more independent of theirs. It\nmarked a distinction between her intimacy in the family, and the\nreverential manner in which the townspeople were accustomed to speak\nof \"the earl and the countess.\" Both Lady Cumnor and Lady Harriet\nwrote to their \"dear Clare\" from time to time. The former had\ngenerally some commissions that she wished to have executed at the\nTowers, or in the town; and no one could do them so well as Clare,\nwho was acquainted with all the tastes and ways of the countess.\nThese commissions were the cause of various bills for flys and cars\nfrom the George Inn. Mr. Gibson pointed out this consequence to\nhis wife; but she, in return, bade him remark that a present of\ngame was pretty sure to follow upon the satisfactory execution of\nLady Cumnor's wishes. Somehow, Mr. Gibson did not quite like this\nconsequence either; but he was silent about it, at any rate. Lady\nHarriet's letters were short and amusing. She had that sort of regard\nfor her old governess which prompted her to write from time to time,\nand to feel glad when the half-voluntary task was accomplished. So\nthere was no real outpouring of confidence, but enough news of the\nfamily and gossip of the place she was in, as she thought would\nmake Clare feel that she was not forgotten by her former pupils,\nintermixed with moderate but sincere expressions of regard. How\nthose letters were quoted and referred to by Mrs. Gibson in her\nconversations with the Hollingford ladies! She had found out their\neffect at Ashcombe; and it was not less at Hollingford. But she was\nrather perplexed at kindly messages to Molly, and at inquiries as\nto how the Miss Brownings liked the tea she had sent; and Molly\nhad first to explain, and then to narrate at full length, all the\noccurrences of the afternoon at Ashcombe Manor-house, and Lady\nHarriet's subsequent call upon her at Miss Brownings'.\n\n\"What nonsense!\" said Mrs. Gibson, with some annoyance. \"Lady Harriet\nonly went to see you out of a desire of amusement. She would only\nmake fun of Miss Brownings, and those two will be quoting her and\ntalking about her, just as if she was their intimate friend.\"\n\n\"I don't think she did make fun of them. She really seemed as if she\nhad been very kind.\"\n\n\"And you suppose you know her ways better than I do who have known\nher these fifteen years? I tell you she turns every one into ridicule\nwho does not belong to her set. Why, she used always to speak of Miss\nBrownings as 'Pecksy and Flapsy.'\"\n\n\"She promised me she would not,\" said Molly driven to bay.\n\n\"Promised you!--Lady Harriet? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Only--she spoke of them as Pecksy and Flapsy--and when she talked of\ncoming to call on me at their house, I asked her not to come if she\nwas going to--to make fun of them.\"\n\n\"Upon my word! with all my long acquaintance with Lady Harriet, I\nshould never have ventured on such impertinence.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean it as impertinence,\" said Molly sturdily. \"And I don't\nthink Lady Harriet took it as such.\"\n\n\"You can't know anything about it. She can put on any kind of\nmanner.\"\n\nJust then Squire Hamley came in. It was his first call; and Mrs.\nGibson gave him a graceful welcome, and was quite ready to accept\nhis apology for its tardiness, and to assure him that she quite\nunderstood the pressure of business on every land-owner who farmed\nhis own estate. But no such apology was made. He shook her hand\nheartily, as a mark of congratulation on her good fortune in having\nsecured such a prize as his friend Gibson, but said nothing about his\nlong neglect of duty. Molly, who by this time knew the few strong\nexpressions of his countenance well, was sure that something was the\nmatter, and that he was very much disturbed. He hardly attended to\nMrs. Gibson's fluent opening of conversation, for she had already\ndetermined to make a favourable impression on the father of the\nhandsome young man who was heir to an estate, besides his own\npersonal agreeableness; but he turned to Molly and, addressing her,\nsaid--almost in a low voice, as if he was making a confidence to her\nthat he did not intend Mrs. Gibson to hear,--\n\n\"Molly, we are all wrong at home! Osborne has lost the fellowship\nat Trinity he went back to try for. Then he has gone and failed\nmiserably in his degree, after all that he said, and that his mother\nsaid; and I, like a fool, went and boasted about my clever son. I\ncan't understand it. I never expected anything extraordinary from\nRoger; but Osborne--! And then it has thrown madam into one of her\nbad fits of illness; and she seems to have a fancy for you, child!\nYour father came to see her this morning. Poor thing, she's very\npoorly, I'm afraid; and she told him how she should like to have you\nabout her, and he said I might fetch you. You'll come, won't you, my\ndear? She's not a poor woman, such as many people think it's the only\ncharity to be kind to, but she's just as forlorn of woman's care as\nif she was poor--worse, I daresay.\"\n\n\"I'll be ready in ten minutes,\" said Molly, much touched by the\nsquire's words and manner, never thinking of asking her stepmother's\nconsent, now that she had heard that her father had given his. As she\nrose to leave the room, Mrs. Gibson, who had only half heard what the\nSquire had said, and was a little affronted at the exclusiveness of\nhis confidence, said,--\"My dear, where are you going?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Hamley wants me, and papa says I may go,\" said Molly; and\nalmost at the same time the Squire replied,--\n\n\"My wife is ill, and as she's very fond of your daughter, she begged\nMr. Gibson to allow her to come to the Hall for a little while, and\nhe kindly said she might, and I'm come to fetch her.\"\n\n\"Stop a minute, darling,\" said Mrs. Gibson to Molly--a slight cloud\nover her countenance, in spite of her caressing word. \"I am sure dear\npapa quite forgot that you were to go out with me to-night, to visit\npeople,\" continued she, addressing herself to the Squire, \"with whom\nI am quite unacquainted--and it is very uncertain if Mr. Gibson can\nreturn in time to accompany me--so, you see, I cannot allow Molly to\ngo with you.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't have thought it would have signified. Brides are always\nbrides, I suppose; and it's their part to be timid; but I shouldn't\nhave thought it--in this case. And my wife sets her heart on things,\nas sick people do. Well, Molly\" (in a louder tone, for these\nforegoing sentences were spoken _sotto voce_), \"we must put it off\ntill to-morrow: and it's our loss, not yours,\" he continued, as\nhe saw the reluctance with which she slowly returned to her place.\n\"You'll be as gay as can be to-night, I daresay--\"\n\n\"No, I shall not,\" broke in Molly. \"I never wanted to go, and now I\nshall want it less than ever.\"\n\n\"Hush, my dear,\" said Mrs. Gibson; and, addressing the Squire, she\nadded, \"The visiting here is not all one could wish for so young a\ngirl--no young people, no dances, nothing of gaiety; but it is wrong\nin you, Molly, to speak against such kind friends of your father's as\nI understand these Cockerells are. Don't give so bad an impression of\nyourself to the kind Squire.\"\n\n\"Let her alone! let her alone!\" quoth he. \"I see what she means.\nShe'd rather come and be in my wife's sick-room than go out for this\nvisit to-night. Is there no way of getting her off?\"\n\n\"None whatever,\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"An engagement is an engagement\nwith me; and I consider that she is not only engaged to Mrs.\nCockerell, but to me--bound to accompany me, in my husband's\nabsence.\"\n\nThe Squire was put out; and when he was put out he had a trick of\nplacing his hands on his knees and whistling softly to himself. Molly\nknew this phase of his displeasure, and only hoped he would confine\nhimself to this wordless expression of annoyance. It was pretty hard\nwork for her to keep the tears out of her eyes; and she endeavoured\nto think of something else, rather than dwell on regrets and\nannoyances. She heard Mrs. Gibson talking on in a sweet monotone, and\nwished to attend to what she was saying, but the Squire's visible\nannoyance struck sharper on her mind. At length, after a pause of\nsilence, he started up, and said,--\n\n\"Well! it's no use. Poor madam; she won't like it. She'll be\ndisappointed! But it's but for one evening!--but for one evening! She\nmay come to-morrow, mayn't she? Or will the dissipation of such an\nevening as she describes, be too much for her?\"\n\nThere was a touch of savage irony in his manner which frightened Mrs.\nGibson into good behaviour.\n\n\"She shall be ready at any time you name. I am so sorry: my foolish\nshyness is in fault, I believe; but still you must acknowledge that\nan engagement is an engagement.\"\n\n\"Did I ever say an engagement was an elephant, madam? However,\nthere's no use saying any more about it, or I shall forget my\nmanners. I'm an old tyrant, and she--lying there in bed, poor\ngirl--has always given me my own way. So you'll excuse me, Mrs.\nGibson, won't you; and let Molly come along with me at ten to-morrow\nmorning?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Mrs. Gibson, smiling. But when his back was turned,\nshe said to Molly,--\n\n\"Now, my dear, I must never have you exposing me to the ill-manners\nof such a man again! I don't call him a squire; I call him a boor,\nor a yeoman at best. You must not go on accepting or rejecting\ninvitations as if you were an independent young lady, Molly. Pay me\nthe respect of a reference to my wishes another time, if you please,\nmy dear!\"\n\n\"Papa had said I might go,\" said Molly, choking a little.\n\n\"As I am now your mamma, your references must be to me, for the\nfuture. But as you are to go you may as well look well dressed. I\nwill lend you my new shawl for this visit, if you like it, and my set\nof green ribbons. I am always indulgent when proper respect is paid\nto me. And in such a house as Hamley Hall, no one can tell who may be\ncoming and going, even if there is sickness in the family.\"\n\n\"Thank you. But I don't want the shawl and the ribbons, please: there\nwill be nobody there except the family. There never is, I think; and\nnow that she is so ill\"--Molly was on the point of crying at the\nthought of her friend lying ill and lonely, and looking for her\narrival. Moreover, she was sadly afraid lest the Squire had gone off\nwith the idea that she did not want to come--that she preferred that\nstupid, stupid party at the Cockerells'. Mrs. Gibson, too, was sorry;\nshe had an uncomfortable consciousness of having given way to temper\nbefore a stranger, and a stranger, too, whose good opinion she had\nmeant to cultivate; and she was also annoyed at Molly's tearful face.\n\n\"What can I do for you, to bring you back into good temper?\" she\nsaid. \"First, you insist upon your knowing Lady Harriet better than\nI do--I, who have known her for eighteen or nineteen years at least.\nThen you jump at invitations without ever consulting me, or thinking\nof how awkward it would be for me to go stumping into a drawing-room\nall by myself; following my new name, too, which always makes me feel\nuncomfortable, it is such a sad come-down after Kirkpatrick! And\nthen, when I offer you some of the prettiest things I have got, you\nsay it does not signify how you are dressed. What can I do to please\nyou, Molly? I, who delight in nothing more than peace in a family, to\nsee you sitting there with despair upon your face?\"\n\nMolly could stand it no longer; she went upstairs to her own\nroom--her own smart new room, which hardly yet seemed a familiar\nplace; and began to cry so heartily and for so long a time, that she\nstopped at length for very weariness. She thought of Mrs. Hamley\nwearying for her; of the old Hall whose very quietness might become\noppressive to an ailing person; of the trust the Squire had had in\nher that she would come off directly with him. And all this oppressed\nher much more than the querulousness of her stepmother's words.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nTROUBLE AT HAMLEY HALL.\n\n\nIf Molly thought that peace dwelt perpetually at Hamley Hall\nshe was sorely mistaken. Something was out of tune in the whole\nestablishment; and, for a very unusual thing, the common irritation\nseemed to have produced a common bond. All the servants were old in\ntheir places, and were told by some one of the family, or gathered,\nfrom the unheeded conversation carried on before them, everything\nthat affected master or mistress or either of the young gentlemen.\nAny one of them could have told Molly that the grievance which lay at\nthe root of everything, was the amount of the bills run up by Osborne\nat Cambridge, and which, now that all chance of his obtaining a\nfellowship was over, came pouring down upon the Squire. But Molly,\nconfident of being told by Mrs. Hamley herself anything which she\nwished her to hear, encouraged no confidences from any one else.\n\nShe was struck with the change in \"madam's\" look as soon as she\ncaught sight of her in the darkened room, lying on the sofa in her\ndressing-room, all dressed in white, which almost rivalled the white\nwanness of her face. The Squire ushered Molly in with,--\n\n\"Here she is at last!\" and Molly had scarcely imagined that he had so\nmuch variety in the tones of his voice--the beginning of the sentence\nwas spoken in a loud congratulatory manner, while the last words\nwere scarcely audible. He had seen the death-like pallor on his\nwife's face; not a new sight, and one which had been presented to him\ngradually enough, but which was now always giving him a fresh shock.\nIt was a lovely tranquil winter's day; every branch and every twig\non the trees and shrubs was glittering with drops of the sun-melted\nhoar-frost; a robin was perched on a holly-bush, piping cheerily; but\nthe blinds were down, and out of Mrs. Hamley's windows nothing of all\nthis was to be seen. There was even a large screen placed between\nher and the wood-fire, to keep off that cheerful blaze. Mrs. Hamley\nstretched out one hand to Molly, and held hers firm; with the other\nshe shaded her eyes.\n\n\"She is not so well this morning,\" said the Squire, shaking his head.\n\"But never fear, my dear one; here's the doctor's daughter, nearly\nas good as the doctor himself. Have you had your medicine? Your\nbeef-tea?\" he continued, going about on heavy tiptoe and peeping into\nevery empty cup and glass. Then he returned to the sofa; looked at\nher for a minute or two, and then softly kissed her, and told Molly\nhe would leave her in charge.\n\nAs if Mrs. Hamley was afraid of Molly's remarks or questions, she\nbegan in her turn a hasty system of interrogatories.\n\n\"Now, dear child, tell me all; it's no breach of confidence, for I\nshan't mention it again, and I shan't be here long. How does it all\ngo on--the new mother, the good resolutions? let me help you if I\ncan. I think with a girl I could have been of use--a mother does not\nknow boys. But tell me anything you like and will; don't be afraid of\ndetails.\"\n\nEven with Molly's small experience of illness she saw how much of\nrestless fever there was in this speech; and instinct, or some\nsuch gift, prompted her to tell a long story of many things--the\nwedding-day, her visit to Miss Brownings', the new furniture, Lady\nHarriet, &c., all in an easy flow of talk which was very soothing\nto Mrs. Hamley, inasmuch as it gave her something to think about\nbeyond her own immediate sorrows. But Molly did not speak of her own\ngrievances, nor of the new domestic relationship. Mrs. Hamley noticed\nthis.\n\n\"And you and Mrs. Gibson get on happily together?\"\n\n\"Not always,\" said Molly. \"You know we didn't know much of each other\nbefore we were put to live together.\"\n\n\"I didn't like what the Squire told me last night. He was very\nangry.\"\n\nThat sore had not yet healed over; but Molly resolutely kept silence,\nbeating her brains to think of some other subject of conversation.\n\n\"Ah! I see, Molly,\" said Mrs. Hamley; \"you won't tell me your\nsorrows, and yet, perhaps, I could have done you some good.\"\n\n\"I don't like,\" said Molly, in a low voice. \"I think papa wouldn't\nlike it. And, besides, you have helped me so much--you and Mr.\nRoger Hamley. I often think of the things he said; they come in so\nusefully, and are such a strength to me.\"\n\n\"Ah, Roger! yes. He is to be trusted. Oh, Molly! I've a great deal\nto say to you myself, only not now. I must have my medicine and try\nto go to sleep. Good girl! You are stronger than I am, and can do\nwithout sympathy.\"\n\nMolly was taken to another room; the maid who conducted her to it\ntold her that Mrs. Hamley had not wished her to have her nights\ndisturbed, as they might very probably have been if she had been in\nher former sleeping-room. In the afternoon Mrs. Hamley sent for her,\nand with the want of reticence common to invalids, especially to\nthose suffering from long and depressing maladies, she told Molly of\nthe family distress and disappointment.\n\nShe made Molly sit down near her on a little stool, and, holding her\nhand, and looking into her eyes to catch her spoken sympathy from\ntheir expression quicker than she could from her words, she said,--\n\n\"Osborne has so disappointed us! I cannot understand it yet. And the\nSquire was so terribly angry! I cannot think how all the money was\nspent--advances through money-lenders, besides bills. The Squire\ndoes not show me how angry he is now, because he's afraid of another\nattack; but I know how angry he is. You see he has been spending ever\nso much money in reclaiming that land at Upton Common, and is very\nhard pressed himself. But it would have doubled the value of the\nestate, and so we never thought anything of economies which would\nbenefit Osborne in the long run. And now the Squire says he must\nmortgage some of the land; and you can't think how it cuts him to\nthe heart. He sold a great deal of timber to send the two boys to\ncollege. Osborne--oh! what a dear, innocent boy he was: he was the\nheir, you know; and he was so clever, every one said he was sure of\nhonours and a fellowship, and I don't know what all; and he did get\na scholarship, and then all went wrong. I don't know how. That is\nthe worst. Perhaps the Squire wrote too angrily, and that stopped up\nconfidence. But he might have told me. He would have done, I think,\nMolly, if he had been here, face to face with me. But the Squire, in\nhis anger, told him not to show his face at home till he had paid off\nthe debts he had incurred out of his allowance. Out of two hundred\nand fifty a year to pay off more than nine hundred, one way or\nanother! And not to come home till then! Perhaps Roger will have\ndebts too! He had but two hundred; but, then, he was not the eldest\nson. The Squire has given orders that the men are to be turned off\nthe draining-works; and I lie awake thinking of their poor families\nthis wintry weather. But what shall we do? I've never been strong,\nand, perhaps, I've been extravagant in my habits; and there were\nfamily traditions as to expenditure, and the reclaiming of this land.\nOh! Molly, Osborne was such a sweet little baby, and such a loving\nboy: so clever, too! You know I read you some of his poetry: now,\ncould a person who wrote like that do anything very wrong? And yet\nI'm afraid he has.\"\n\n\"Don't you know, at all, how the money has gone?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"No! not at all. That's the sting. There are tailors' bills,\nand bills for book-binding and wine and pictures--those come\nto four or five hundred; and though this expenditure is\nextraordinary--inexplicable to such simple folk as we are--yet it\nmay be only the luxury of the present day. But the money for which\nhe will give no account,--of which, indeed, we only heard through\nthe Squire's London agents, who found out that certain disreputable\nattorneys were making inquiries as to the entail of the estate;--oh!\nMolly, worse than all--I don't know how to bring myself to tell\nyou--as to the age and health of the Squire, his dear father\"--(she\nbegan to sob almost hysterically; yet she would go on talking, in\nspite of Molly's efforts to stop her)--\"who held him in his arms, and\nblessed him, even before I had kissed him; and thought always so much\nof him as his heir and first-born darling. How he has loved him! How\nI have loved him! I sometimes have thought of late that we've almost\ndone that good Roger injustice.\"\n\n\"No! I'm sure you've not: only look at the way he loves you. Why, you\nare his first thought: he may not speak about it, but any one may see\nit. And dear, dear Mrs. Hamley,\" said Molly, determined to say out\nall that was in her mind now that she had once got the word, \"don't\nyou think that it would be better not to misjudge Mr. Osborne Hamley?\nWe don't know what he has done with the money: he is so good (is he\nnot?) that he may have wanted it to relieve some poor person--some\ntradesman, for instance, pressed by creditors--some--\"\n\n\"You forget, dear,\" said Mrs. Hamley, smiling a little at the girl's\nimpetuous romance, but sighing the next instant, \"that all the other\nbills come from tradesmen, who complain piteously of being kept out\nof their money.\"\n\nMolly was nonplussed for the moment; but then she said,--\n\n\"I daresay they imposed upon him. I'm sure I've heard stories of\nyoung men being made regular victims of by the shopkeepers in great\ntowns.\"\n\n\"You're a great darling, child,\" said Mrs. Hamley, comforted by\nMolly's strong partisanship, unreasonable and ignorant though it was.\n\n\"And, besides,\" continued Molly, \"some one must be acting wrongly in\nOsborne's--Mr. Osborne Hamley's, I mean--I can't help saying Osborne\nsometimes, but, indeed, I always think of him as Mr. Osborne--\"\n\n\"Never mind, Molly, what you call him; only go on talking. It\nseems to do me good to hear the hopeful side taken. The Squire has\nbeen so hurt and displeased: strange-looking men coming into the\nneighbourhood, too, questioning the tenants, and grumbling about the\nlast fall of timber, as if they were calculating on the Squire's\ndeath.\"\n\n\"That's just what I was going to speak about. Doesn't it show that\nthey are bad men? and would bad men scruple to impose upon him, and\nto tell lies in his name, and to ruin him?\"\n\n\"Don't you see, you only make him out weak, instead of wicked?\"\n\n\"Yes; perhaps I do. But I don't think he is weak. You know yourself,\ndear Mrs. Hamley, how very clever he really is. Besides, I would\nrather he was weak than wicked. Weak people may find themselves all\nat once strong in heaven, when they see things quite clearly; but I\ndon't think the wicked will turn themselves into virtuous people all\nat once.\"\n\n\"I think I've been very weak, Molly,\" said Mrs. Hamley, stroking\nMolly's curls affectionately. \"I've made such an idol of my beautiful\nOsborne; and he turns out to have feet of clay, not strong enough to\nstand firm on the ground. And that's the best view of his conduct,\ntoo!\"\n\nWhat with his anger against his son, and his anxiety about his wife;\nthe difficulty of raising the money immediately required, and his\nirritation at the scarce-concealed inquiries made by strangers as to\nthe value of his property, the poor Squire was in a sad state. He\nwas angry and impatient with every one who came near him; and then\nwas depressed at his own violent temper and unjust words. The old\nservants, who, perhaps, cheated him in many small things, were\nbeautifully patient under his upbraidings. They could understand\nbursts of passion, and knew the cause of his variable moods as well\nas he did himself. The butler, who was accustomed to argue with his\nmaster about every fresh direction as to his work, now nudged Molly\nat dinner-time to make her eat of some dish which she had just been\ndeclining, and explained his conduct afterwards as follows:--\n\n\"You see, miss, me and cook had planned a dinner as would tempt\nmaster to eat; but when you say, 'No, thank you,' when I hand you\nanything, master never so much as looks at it. But if you takes a\nthing, and eats with a relish, why first he waits, and then he looks,\nand by-and-by he smells; and then he finds out as he's hungry, and\nfalls to eating as natural as a kitten takes to mewing. That's the\nreason, miss, as I gave you a nudge and a wink, which no one knows\nbetter nor me was not manners.\"\n\nOsborne's name was never mentioned during these cheerless meals. The\nSquire asked Molly questions about Hollingford people, but did not\nseem much to attend to her answers. He used also to ask her every day\nhow she thought that his wife was; but if Molly told the truth--that\nevery day seemed to make her weaker and weaker--he was almost savage\nwith the girl. He could not bear it; and he would not. Nay, once he\nwas on the point of dismissing Mr. Gibson because he insisted on a\nconsultation with Dr. Nicholls, the great physician of the county.\n\n\"It's nonsense thinking her so ill as that--you know it's only the\ndelicacy she's had for years; and if you can't do her any good in\nsuch a simple case--no pain--only weakness and nervousness--it is a\nsimple case, eh?--don't look in that puzzled way, man!--you'd better\ngive her up altogether, and I'll take her to Bath or Brighton,\nor somewhere for change, for in my opinion it's only moping and\nnervousness.\"\n\nBut the Squire's bluff florid face was pinched with anxiety, and worn\nwith the effort of being deaf to the footsteps of fate as he said\nthese words which belied his fears.\n\nMr. Gibson replied very quietly,--\n\n\"I shall go on coming to see her, and I know you'll not forbid my\nvisits. But I shall bring Dr. Nicholls with me the next time I come.\nI may be mistaken in my treatment; and I wish to God he may say I am\nmistaken in my apprehensions.\"\n\n\"Don't tell me them! I cannot bear them!\" cried the Squire. \"Of\ncourse we must all die; and she must too. But the cleverest doctor\nin England shan't go about coolly meting out the life of such as her.\nI daresay I shall die first. I hope I shall. But I'll knock any one\ndown who speaks to me of death sitting within me. And, besides, I\nthink all doctors are ignorant quacks, pretending to knowledge they\nhaven't got. Ay, you may smile at me. I don't care. Unless you can\ntell me I shall die first, neither you nor your Dr. Nicholls shall\ncome prophesying and croaking about this house.\"\n\nMr. Gibson went away, heavy at heart from the thought of Mrs.\nHamley's approaching death, but thinking little enough of the\nSquire's speeches. He had almost forgotten them, in fact, when about\nnine o'clock that evening, a groom rode in from Hamley Hall in hot\nhaste, with a note from the Squire.\n\n\n   DEAR GIBSON,--\n\n   For God's sake forgive me if I was rude to-day. She is\n   much worse. Come and spend the night here. Write for\n   Nicholls, and all the physicians you want. Write before\n   you start off. They may give her ease. There were\n   Whitworth doctors much talked of in my youth for curing\n   people given up by the regular doctors; can't you get one\n   of them? I put myself in your hands. Sometimes I think it\n   is the turning point, and she'll rally after this bout. I\n   trust all to you.\n\n   Yours ever,\n\n   R. HAMLEY.\n\n   P.S.--Molly is a treasure.--God help me!\n\n\nOf course Mr. Gibson went; for the first time since his marriage\ncutting short Mrs. Gibson's querulous lamentations over her life,\nas involved in that of a doctor called out at all hours of day and\nnight.\n\nHe brought Mrs. Hamley through this attack; and for a day or two the\nSquire's alarm and gratitude made him docile in Mr. Gibson's hands.\nThen he returned to the idea of its being a crisis through which his\nwife had passed; and that she was now on the way to recovery. But\nthe day after the consultation with Dr. Nicholls, Mr. Gibson said to\nMolly,--\n\n\"Molly! I've written to Osborne and Roger. Do you know Osborne's\naddress?\"\n\n\"No, papa. He's in disgrace. I don't know if the Squire knows; and\nshe has been too ill to write.\"\n\n\"Never mind. I'll enclose it to Roger; whatever those lads may be to\nothers, there's as strong brotherly love as ever I saw, between the\ntwo. Roger will know. And, Molly, they are sure to come home as soon\nas they hear my report of their mother's state. I wish you'd tell the\nSquire what I've done. It's not a pleasant piece of work; and I'll\ntell madam myself in my own way. I'd have told him if he'd been at\nhome; but you say he was obliged to go to Ashcombe on business.\"\n\n\"Quite obliged. He was so sorry to miss you. But, papa, he will be so\nangry! You don't know how mad he is against Osborne.\"\n\nMolly dreaded the Squire's anger when she gave him her father's\nmessage. She had seen quite enough of the domestic relations of\nthe Hamley family to understand that, underneath his old-fashioned\ncourtesy, and the pleasant hospitality he showed to her as a guest,\nthere was a strong will, and a vehement passionate temper, along with\nthat degree of obstinacy in prejudices (or \"opinions,\" as he would\nhave called them) so common to those who have, neither in youth nor\nin manhood, mixed largely with their kind. She had listened, day\nafter day, to Mrs. Hamley's plaintive murmurs as to the deep disgrace\nin which Osborne was being held by his father--the prohibition of his\ncoming home; and she hardly knew how to begin to tell him that the\nletter summoning Osborne had already been sent off.\n\nTheir dinners were tête-à-tête. The Squire tried to make them\npleasant to Molly, feeling deeply grateful to her for the soothing\ncomfort she was to his wife. He made merry speeches, which sank\naway into silence, and at which they each forgot to smile. He\nordered up rare wines, which she did not care for, but tasted out of\ncomplaisance. He noticed that one day she had eaten some brown beurré\npears as if she liked them; and as his trees had not produced many\nthis year, he gave directions that this particular kind should be\nsought for through the neighbourhood. Molly felt that, in many ways,\nhe was full of good-will towards her; but it did not diminish her\ndread of touching on the one sore point in the family. However, it\nhad to be done, and that without delay.\n\nThe great log was placed on the after-dinner fire, the hearth swept\nup, the ponderous candles snuffed, and then the door was shut and\nMolly and the Squire were left to their dessert. She sat at the side\nof the table in her old place. That at the head was vacant; yet, as\nno orders had been given to the contrary, the plate and glasses and\nnapkin were always arranged as regularly and methodically as if Mrs.\nHamley would come in as usual. Indeed, sometimes, when the door\nby which she used to enter was opened by any chance, Molly caught\nherself looking round as if she expected to see the tall, languid\nfigure in the elegant draperies of rich silk and soft lace, which\nMrs. Hamley was wont to wear of an evening.\n\nThis evening, it struck her, as a new thought of pain, that into\nthat room she would come no more. She had fixed to give her father's\nmessage at this very point of time; but something in her throat\nchoked her, and she hardly knew how to govern her voice. The Squire\ngot up and went to the broad fireplace, to strike into the middle of\nthe great log, and split it up into blazing, sparkling pieces. His\nback was towards her. Molly began, \"When papa was here to-day, he\nbade me tell you he had written to Mr. Roger Hamley to say that--that\nhe thought he had better come home; and he enclosed a letter to Mr.\nOsborne Hamley to say the same thing.\"\n\nThe Squire put down the poker, but he still kept his back to Molly.\n\n\"He sent for Osborne and Roger?\" he asked, at length.\n\nMolly answered, \"Yes.\"\n\nThen there was a dead silence, which Molly thought would never end.\nThe Squire had placed his two hands on the high chimney-piece, and\nstood leaning over the fire.\n\n\"Roger would have been down from Cambridge on the 18th,\" said he.\n\"And he has sent for Osborne, too! Did he know,\"--he continued,\nturning round to Molly, with something of the fierceness she had\nanticipated in voice and look. In another moment he had dropped his\nvoice. \"It's right, quite right. I understand. It has come at length.\nCome! come! Osborne has brought it on, though,\" with a fresh access\nof anger in his tones. \"She might have\" (some word Molly could not\nhear--she thought it sounded like \"lingered\") \"but for that. I can't\nforgive him; I cannot.\"\n\nAnd then he suddenly left the room. While Molly sat there still, very\nsad in her sympathy with all, he put his head in again:--\n\n\"Go to her, my dear; I cannot--not just yet. But I will soon. Just\nthis bit; and after that I won't lose a moment. You're a good girl.\nGod bless you!\"\n\nIt is not to be supposed that Molly had remained all this time at the\nHall without interruption. Once or twice her father had brought her\na summons home. Molly thought she could perceive that he had brought\nit unwillingly; in fact, it was Mrs. Gibson that had sent for her,\nalmost, as it were, to preserve a \"right of way\" through her actions.\n\n\"You shall come back to-morrow, or the next day,\" her father had\nsaid. \"But mamma seems to think people will put a bad construction on\nyour being so much away from home so soon after our marriage.\"\n\n\"Oh, papa, I'm afraid Mrs. Hamley will miss me! I do so like being\nwith her.\"\n\n\"I don't think it is likely she will miss you as much as she would\nhave done a month or two ago. She sleeps so much now, that she is\nscarcely conscious of the lapse of time. I'll see that you come back\nhere again in a day or two.\"\n\nSo out of the silence and the soft melancholy of the Hall Molly\nreturned into the all-pervading element of chatter and gossip at\nHollingford. Mrs. Gibson received her kindly enough. Once she had a\nsmart new winter bonnet ready to give her as a present; but she did\nnot care to hear any particulars about the friends whom Molly had\njust left; and her few remarks on the state of affairs at the Hall\njarred terribly on the sensitive Molly.\n\n\"What a time she lingers! Your papa never expected she would last\nhalf so long after that attack. It must be very wearing work to them\nall; I declare you look quite another creature since you were there.\nOne can only wish it mayn't last, for their sakes.\"\n\n\"You don't know how the Squire values every minute,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Why, you say she sleeps a great deal, and doesn't talk much when\nshe's awake, and there's not the slightest hope for her. And yet, at\nsuch times, people are kept on the tenter-hooks with watching and\nwaiting. I know it by my dear Kirkpatrick. There really were days\nwhen I thought it never would end. But we won't talk any more of such\ndismal things; you've had quite enough of them, I'm sure, and it\nalways makes me melancholy to hear of illness and death; and yet your\npapa seems sometimes as if he could talk of nothing else. I'm going\nto take you out to-night, though, and that will give you something\nof a change; and I've been getting Miss Rose to trim up one of my\nold gowns for you; it's too tight for me. There's some talk of\ndancing,--it's at Mrs. Edwards'.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, I cannot go!\" cried Molly. \"I've been so much with her;\nand she may be suffering so, or even dying--and I to be dancing!\"\n\n\"Nonsense! You're no relation, so you need not feel it so much. I\nwouldn't urge you, if she was likely to know about it and be hurt;\nbut as it is, it's all fixed that you are to go; and don't let us\nhave any nonsense about it. We might sit twirling our thumbs, and\nrepeating hymns all our lives long, if we were to do nothing else\nwhen people were dying.\"\n\n\"I cannot go,\" repeated Molly. And, acting upon impulse, and almost\nto her own surprise, she appealed to her father, who came into the\nroom at this very time. He contracted his dark eyebrows, and looked\nannoyed as both wife and daughter poured their different sides of the\nargument into his ears. He sat down in desperation of patience. When\nhis turn came to pronounce a decision, he said,--\n\n\"I suppose I can have some lunch? I went away at six this morning,\nand there's nothing in the dining-room. I have to go off again\ndirectly.\"\n\nMolly started to the door; Mrs. Gibson made haste to ring the bell.\n\n\"Where are you going, Molly?\" said she, sharply.\n\n\"Only to see about papa's lunch.\"\n\n\"There are servants to do it; and I don't like your going into the\nkitchen.\"\n\n\"Come, Molly! sit down and be quiet,\" said her father. \"One comes\nhome wanting peace and quietness--and food too. If I am to be\nappealed to, which I beg I may not be another time, I settle that\nMolly stops at home this evening. I shall come back late and tired.\nSee that I have something ready to eat, goosey, and then I'll dress\nmyself up in my best, and go and fetch you home, my dear. I wish all\nthese wedding festivities were well over. Ready, is it? Then I'll go\ninto the dining-room and gorge myself. A doctor ought to be able to\neat like a camel, or like Major Dugald Dalgetty.\"\n\nIt was well for Molly that callers came in just at this time, for\nMrs. Gibson was extremely annoyed. They told her some little local\npiece of news, however, which filled up her mind; and Molly found\nthat, if she only expressed wonder enough at the engagement they had\nboth heard of from the departed callers, the previous discussion as\nto her accompanying her stepmother or not might be entirely passed\nover. Not entirely though; for the next morning she had to listen to\na very brilliantly touched-up account of the dance and the gaiety\nwhich she had missed; and also to be told that Mrs. Gibson had\nchanged her mind about giving her the gown, and thought now that\nshe should reserve it for Cynthia, if only it was long enough; but\nCynthia was so tall--quite overgrown, in fact. The chances seemed\nequally balanced as to whether Molly might not have the gown after\nall.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nMR. OSBORNE'S SECRET.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nOsborne and Roger came to the Hall; Molly found Roger established\nthere when she returned after this absence at home. She gathered\nthat Osborne was coming; but very little was said about him in any\nway. The Squire scarcely ever left his wife's room; he sat by her,\nwatching her, and now and then moaning to himself. She was so much\nunder the influence of opiates that she did not often rouse up; but\nwhen she did, she almost invariably asked for Molly. On these rare\noccasions, she would ask after Osborne--where he was, if he had been\ntold, and if he was coming? In her weakened and confused state of\nintellect she seemed to have retained two strong impressions--one,\nof the sympathy with which Molly had received her confidence about\nOsborne; the other, of the anger which her husband entertained\nagainst him. Before the squire she never mentioned Osborne's name;\nnor did she seem at her ease in speaking about him to Roger; while,\nwhen she was alone with Molly, she hardly spoke of any one else.\nShe must have had some sort of wandering idea that Roger blamed his\nbrother, while she remembered Molly's eager defence, which she had\nthought hopelessly improbable at the time. At any rate, she made\nMolly her confidante about her first-born. She sent her to ask Roger\nhow soon he would come, for she seemed to know perfectly well that he\nwas coming.\n\n\"Tell me all Roger says. He will tell you.\"\n\nBut it was several days before Molly could ask Roger any questions;\nand meanwhile Mrs. Hamley's state had materially altered. At length\nMolly came upon Roger sitting in the library, his head buried in his\nhands. He did not hear her footstep till she was close beside him.\nThen he lifted up his face, red, and stained with tears, his hair all\nruffled up and in disorder.\n\n\"I've been wanting to see you alone,\" she began. \"Your mother does\nso want some news of your brother Osborne. She told me last week to\nask you about him, but I did not like to speak of him before your\nfather.\"\n\n\"She has hardly ever named him to me.\"\n\n\"I don't know why; for to me she used to talk of him perpetually. I\nhave seen so little of her this week, and I think she forgets a great\ndeal now. Still, if you don't mind, I should like to be able to tell\nher something if she asks me again.\"\n\nHe put his head again between his hands, and did not answer her for\nsome time.\n\n\"What does she want to know?\" said he, at last. \"Does she know that\nOsborne is coming soon--any day?\"\n\n\"Yes. But she wants to know where he is.\"\n\n\"I can't tell you. I don't exactly know. I believe he's abroad, but\nI'm not sure.\"\n\n\"But you've sent papa's letter to him?\"\n\n\"I've sent it to a friend of his who will know better than I do where\nhe's to be found. You must know that he isn't free from creditors,\nMolly. You can't have been one of the family, like a child of the\nhouse almost, without knowing that much. For that and for other\nreasons I don't exactly know where he is.\"\n\n\"I will tell her so. You are sure he will come?\"\n\n\"Quite sure. But, Molly, I think my mother may live some time yet;\ndon't you? Dr. Nicholls said so yesterday when he was here with\nyour father. He said she had rallied more than he had ever expected.\nYou're not afraid of any change that makes you so anxious for\nOsborne's coming?\"\n\n\"No. It's only for her that I asked. She did seem so to crave for\nnews of him. I think she dreamed of him; and then when she wakened\nit was a relief to her to talk about him to me. She always seemed to\nassociate me with him. We used to speak so much of him when we were\ntogether.\"\n\n\"I don't know what we should any of us have done without you. You've\nbeen like a daughter to my mother.\"\n\n\"I do so love her,\" said Molly, softly.\n\n\"Yes; I see. Have you ever noticed that she sometimes calls you\n'Fanny?' It was the name of a little sister of ours who died. I think\nshe often takes you for her. It was partly that, and partly that at\nsuch a time as this one can't stand on formalities, that made me call\nyou Molly. I hope you don't mind it?\"\n\n\"No; I like it. But will you tell me something more about your\nbrother? She really hungers for news of him.\"\n\n\"She'd better ask me herself. Yet, no! I am so involved by promises\nof secrecy, Molly, that I couldn't satisfy her if she once began to\nquestion me. I believe he's in Belgium, and that he went there about\na fortnight ago, partly to avoid his creditors. You know my father\nhas refused to pay his debts?\"\n\n\"Yes: at least, I knew something like it.\"\n\n\"I don't believe my father could raise the money all at once without\nhaving recourse to steps which he would exceedingly recoil from. Yet\nfor the time it places Osborne in a very awkward position.\"\n\n\"I think what vexes your father a good deal is some mystery as to how\nthe money was spent.\"\n\n\"If my mother ever says anything about that part of the affair,\" said\nRoger, hastily, \"assure her from me that there's nothing of vice or\nwrong-doing about it. I can't say more: I'm tied. But set her mind at\nease on that point.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure if she remembers all her painful anxiety about this,\"\nsaid Molly. \"She used to speak a great deal to me about him before\nyou came, when your father seemed so angry. And now, whenever she\nsees me she wants to talk on the old subject; but she doesn't\nremember so clearly. If she were to see him, I don't believe she\nwould recollect why she was uneasy about him while he was absent.\"\n\n\"He must be here soon. I expect him every day,\" said Roger, uneasily.\n\n\"Do you think your father will be very angry with him?\" asked Molly,\nwith as much timidity as if the squire's displeasure might be\ndirected against her.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Roger. \"My mother's illness may alter him; but\nhe didn't easily forgive us formerly. I remember once--but that is\nnothing to the purpose. I can't help fancying that he has put himself\nunder some strong restraint for my mother's sake, and that he won't\nexpress much. But it doesn't follow that he will forget it. My father\nis a man of few affections, but what he has are very strong; he feels\nanything that touches him on these points deeply and permanently.\nThat unlucky valuing of the property! It has given my father the idea\nof post-obits--\"\n\n\"What are they?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"Raising money to be paid on my father's death, which, of course,\ninvolves calculations as to the duration of his life.\"\n\n\"How shocking!\" said she.\n\n\"I'm as sure as I am of my own life that Osborne never did anything\nof the kind. But my father expressed his suspicions in language\nthat irritated Osborne; and he doesn't speak out, and won't justify\nhimself even as much as he might; and, much as he loves me, I've but\nlittle influence over him, or else he would tell my father all. Well,\nwe must leave it to time,\" he added, sighing. \"My mother would have\nbrought us all right, if she'd been what she once was.\"\n\nHe turned away, leaving Molly very sad. She knew that every member of\nthe family she cared for so much was in trouble, out of which she saw\nno exit; and her small power of helping them was diminishing day by\nday as Mrs. Hamley sank more and more under the influence of opiates\nand stupefying illness. Her father had spoken to her only this very\nday of the desirableness of her returning home for good. Mrs. Gibson\nwanted her--for no particular reason, but for many small fragments of\nreasons. Mrs. Hamley had ceased to want her much, only occasionally\nappearing to remember her existence. Her position (her father\nthought--the idea had not entered her head) in a family of which\nthe only woman was an invalid confined to bed, was becoming awkward.\nBut Molly had begged hard to remain two or three days longer--only\nthat--only till Friday. If Mrs. Hamley should want her (she argued,\nwith tears in her eyes), and should hear that she had left the house,\nshe would think her so unkind, so ungrateful!\n\n\"My dear child, she's getting past wanting any one! The keenness of\nearthly feelings is deadened.\"\n\n\"Papa, that is worst of all. I cannot bear it. I won't believe it.\nShe may not ask for me again, and may quite forget me; but I'm sure,\nto the very last, if the medicines don't stupefy her, she will look\nround for the squire and her children. For poor Osborne most of all;\nbecause he's in sorrow.\"\n\nMr. Gibson shook his head, but said nothing in reply. In a minute or\ntwo he asked,--\n\n\"I don't like to take you away while you even fancy you can be of use\nor comfort to one who has been so kind to you; but, if she hasn't\nwanted you before Friday, will you be convinced, will you come home\nwillingly?\"\n\n\"If I go then, I may see her once again, even if she hasn't asked for\nme?\" inquired Molly.\n\n\"Yes, of course. You must make no noise, no step; but you may go in\nand see her. I must tell you, I'm almost certain she won't ask for\nyou.\"\n\n\"But she may, papa. I will go home on Friday, if she does not. I\nthink she will.\"\n\nSo Molly hung about the house, trying to do all she could out of the\nsick-room, for the comfort of those in it. They only came out for\nmeals, or for necessary business, and found little time for talking\nto her, so her life was solitary enough, waiting for the call that\nnever came. The evening of the day on which she had had the above\nconversation with Roger, Osborne arrived. He came straight into\nthe drawing-room, where Molly was seated on the rug, reading by\nfirelight, as she did not like to ring for candles merely for her\nown use. Osborne came in, with a kind of hurry, which almost made\nhim appear as if he would trip himself up, and fall down. Molly rose.\nHe had not noticed her before; now he came forwards, and took hold\nof both her hands, leading her into the full flickering light, and\nstraining his eyes to look into her face.\n\n\"How is she? You will tell me--you must know the truth! I've\ntravelled day and night since I got your father's letter.\"\n\nBefore she could frame her answer, he had sate down in the nearest\nchair, covering his eyes with his hand.\n\n\"She's very ill,\" said Molly. \"That you know; but I don't think she\nsuffers much pain. She has wanted you sadly.\"\n\nHe groaned aloud. \"My father forbade me to come.\"\n\n\"I know!\" said Molly, anxious to prevent his self-reproach. \"Your\nbrother was away, too. I think no one knew how ill she was--she had\nbeen an invalid for so long.\"\n\n\"You know-- Yes! she told you a great deal--she was very fond of you.\nAnd God knows how I loved her. If I had not been forbidden to come\nhome, I should have told her all. Does my father know of my coming\nnow?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Molly; \"I told him papa had sent for you.\"\n\nJust at that moment the Squire came in. He had not heard of Osborne's\narrival, and was seeking Molly to ask her to write a letter for him.\n\nOsborne did not stand up when his father entered. He was too much\nexhausted, too much oppressed by his feelings, and also too much\nestranged by his father's angry, suspicious letters. If he had come\nforward with any manifestation of feeling at this moment, everything\nmight have been different. But he waited for his father to see him\nbefore he uttered a word. All that the Squire said when his eye fell\nupon him at last was,--\n\n\"You here, sir!\"\n\nAnd, breaking off in the directions he was giving to Molly, he\nabruptly left the room. All the time his heart was yearning after his\nfirst-born; but mutual pride kept them asunder. Yet he went straight\nto the butler, and asked of him when Mr. Osborne had arrived, and how\nhe had come, and if he had had any refreshment--dinner or what--since\nhis arrival?\n\n\"For I think I forget everything now!\" said the poor Squire, putting\nhis hand up to his head. \"For the life of me, I can't remember\nwhether we've had dinner or not; these long nights, and all this\nsorrow and watching, quite bewilder me.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, sir, you will take some dinner with Mr. Osborne. Mrs.\nMorgan is sending up his directly. You hardly sate down at\ndinner-time, sir, you thought my mistress wanted something.\"\n\n\"Ay! I remember now. No! I won't have any more. Give Mr. Osborne what\nwine he chooses. Perhaps _he_ can eat and drink.\" So the Squire went\naway upstairs with bitterness as well as sorrow in his heart.\n\nWhen lights were brought, Molly was struck with the change in\nOsborne. He looked haggard and worn; perhaps with travelling and\nanxiety. Not quite such a dainty gentleman either, as Molly had\nthought him, when she had last seen him calling on her stepmother,\ntwo months before. But she liked him better now. The tone of his\nremarks pleased her more. He was simpler, and less ashamed of showing\nhis feelings. He asked after Roger in a warm, longing kind of way.\nRoger was out: he had ridden to Ashcombe to transact some business\nfor the Squire. Osborne evidently wished for his return; and hung\nabout restlessly in the drawing-room after he had dined.\n\n\"You're sure I mayn't see her to-night?\" he asked Molly, for the\nthird or fourth time.\n\n\"No, indeed. I will go up again if you like it. But Mrs. Jones, the\nnurse Dr. Nicholls sent, is a very decided person. I went up while\nyou were at dinner, and Mrs. Hamley had just taken her drops, and was\non no account to be disturbed by seeing any one, much less by any\nexcitement.\"\n\nOsborne kept walking up and down the long drawing-room, half talking\nto himself, half to Molly.\n\n\"I wish Roger would come. He seems to be the only one to give me a\nwelcome. Does my father always live upstairs in my mother's rooms,\nMiss Gibson?\"\n\n\"He has done since her last attack. I believe he reproaches himself\nfor not having been enough alarmed before.\"\n\n\"You heard all the words he said to me; they were not much of a\nwelcome, were they? And my dear mother, who always--whether I was to\nblame or not--I suppose Roger is sure to come home to-night?\"\n\n\"Quite sure.\"\n\n\"You are staying here, are you not? Do you often see my mother, or\ndoes this omnipotent nurse keep you out too?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Hamley hasn't asked for me for three days now, and I don't go\ninto her room unless she asks. I'm leaving on Friday, I believe.\"\n\n\"My mother was very fond of you, I know.\"\n\nAfter a while he said, in a voice that had a great deal of sensitive\npain in its tone,--\n\n\"I suppose--do you know whether she is quite conscious--quite\nherself?\"\n\n\"Not always conscious,\" said Molly, tenderly. \"She has to take so\nmany opiates. But she never wanders, only forgets, and sleeps.\"\n\n\"Oh, mother, mother!\" said he, stopping suddenly, and hanging over\nthe fire, his hands on the chimney-piece.\n\nWhen Roger came home, Molly thought it time to retire. Poor girl!\nit was getting to be time for her to leave this scene of distress\nin which she could be of no use. She sobbed herself to sleep this\nTuesday night. Two days more, and it would be Friday; and she would\nhave to wrench up the roots she had shot down into this ground. The\nweather was bright the next morning; and morning and sunny weather\ncheer up young hearts. Molly sate in the dining-room making tea for\nthe gentlemen as they came down. She could not help hoping that the\nSquire and Osborne might come to a better understanding before she\nleft; for after all, in the dissension between father and son, lay a\nbitterer sting than in the illness sent by God. But though they met\nat the breakfast-table, they purposely avoided addressing each other.\nPerhaps the natural subject of conversation between the two, at such\na time, would have been Osborne's long journey the night before; but\nhe had never spoken of the place he had come from, whether north,\nsouth, east, or west, and the Squire did not choose to allude to\nanything that might bring out what his son wished to conceal. Again,\nthere was an unexpressed idea in both their minds that Mrs. Hamley's\npresent illness was much aggravated, if not entirely brought on, by\nthe discovery of Osborne's debts; so, many inquiries and answers on\nthat head were tabooed. In fact, their attempts at easy conversation\nwere limited to local subjects, and principally addressed to Molly\nor Roger. Such intercourse was not productive of pleasure, or even\nof friendly feeling, though there was a thin outward surface of\npoliteness and peace. Long before the day was over, Molly wished that\nshe had acceded to her father's proposal, and gone home with him.\nNo one seemed to want her. Mrs. Jones, the nurse, assured her time\nafter time that Mrs. Hamley had never named her name; and her small\nservices in the sick-room were not required since there was a regular\nnurse. Osborne and Roger seemed all in all to each other; and Molly\nnow felt how much the short conversations she had had with Roger had\nserved to give her something to think about, all during the remainder\nof her solitary days. Osborne was extremely polite, and even\nexpressed his gratitude to her for her attentions to his mother in\na very pleasant manner; but he appeared to be unwilling to show\nher any of the deeper feelings of his heart, and almost ashamed of\nhis exhibition of emotion the night before. He spoke to her as any\nagreeable young man speaks to any pleasant young lady; but Molly\nalmost resented this. It was only the Squire who seemed to make her\nof any account. He gave her letters to write, small bills to reckon\nup; and she could have kissed his hands for thankfulness.\n\nThe last afternoon of her stay at the Hall came. Roger had gone out\non the Squire's business. Molly went into the garden, thinking over\nthe last summer, when Mrs. Hamley's sofa used to be placed under\nthe old cedar-tree on the lawn, and when the warm air seemed to be\nscented with roses and sweetbriar. Now, the trees leafless, there was\nno sweet odour in the keen frosty air; and looking up at the house,\nthere were the white sheets of blinds, shutting out the pale winter\nsky from the invalid's room. Then she thought of the day her father\nhad brought her the news of his second marriage: the thicket was\ntangled with dead weeds and rime and hoar-frost; and the beautiful\nfine articulations of branches and boughs and delicate twigs were\nall intertwined in leafless distinctness against the sky. Could she\never be so passionately unhappy again? Was it goodness, or was it\nnumbness, that made her feel as though life was too short to be\ntroubled much about anything? Death seemed the only reality. She had\nneither energy nor heart to walk far or briskly; and turned back\ntowards the house. The afternoon sun was shining brightly on the\nwindows; and, stirred up to unusual activity by some unknown cause,\nthe housemaids had opened the shutters and windows of the generally\nunused library. The middle window was also a door; the white-painted\nwood went halfway up. Molly turned along the little flag-paved path\nthat led past the library windows to the gate in the white railings\nat the front of the house, and went in at the opened door. She had\nhad leave given to choose out any books she wished to read, and to\ntake them home with her; and it was just the sort of half-dawdling\nemployment suited to her taste this afternoon. She mounted on the\nladder to get to a particular shelf high up in a dark corner of the\nroom; and finding there some volume that looked interesting, she sat\ndown on the step to read part of it. There she sat, in her bonnet and\ncloak, when Osborne suddenly came in. He did not see her at first;\nindeed, he seemed in such a hurry that he probably might not have\nnoticed her at all, if she had not spoken.\n\n\"Am I in your way? I only came here for a minute to look for some\nbooks.\" She came down the steps as she spoke, still holding the book\nin her hand.\n\n\"Not at all. It is I who am disturbing you. I must just write a\nletter for the post, and then I shall be gone. Is not this open door\ntoo cold for you?\"\n\n\"Oh, no. It is so fresh and pleasant.\"\n\nShe began to read again, sitting on the lowest step of the ladder;\nhe to write at the large old-fashioned writing-table close to the\nwindow. There was a minute or two of profound silence, in which the\nrapid scratching of Osborne's pen upon the paper was the only sound.\nThen came a click of the gate, and Roger stood at the open door. His\nface was towards Osborne, sitting in the light; his back to Molly,\ncrouched up in her corner. He held out a letter, and said in hoarse\nbreathlessness--\n\n\"Here's a letter from your wife, Osborne. I went past the post-office\nand thought--\"\n\nOsborne stood up, angry dismay upon his face:--\n\n\"Roger! what have you done! Don't you see her?\"\n\nRoger looked round, and Molly stood up in her corner, red, trembling,\nmiserable, as though she were a guilty person. Roger entered the\nroom. All three seemed to be equally dismayed. Molly was the first to\nspeak; she came forward and said--\n\n\"I am so sorry! I didn't wish to hear it, but I couldn't help it. You\nwill trust me, won't you?\" and turning to Roger she said to him with\ntears in her eyes--\"Please say you know I shall not tell.\"\n\n\"We can't help it,\" said Osborne, gloomily. \"Only Roger, who knew\nof what importance it was, ought to have looked round him before\nspeaking.\"\n\n\"So I should,\" said Roger. \"I'm more vexed with myself than you can\nconceive. Not but what I'm as sure of you as of myself,\" continued\nhe, turning to Molly.\n\n\"Yes; but,\" said Osborne, \"you see how many chances there are\nthat even the best-meaning persons may let out what it is of such\nconsequence to me to keep secret.\"\n\n\"I know you think it so,\" said Roger.\n\n\"Well, don't let us begin that old discussion again--at any rate,\nbefore a third person.\"\n\nMolly had had hard work all this time to keep from crying. Now that\nshe was alluded to as the third person before whom conversation was\nto be restrained, she said--\n\n\"I'm going away. Perhaps I ought not to have been here. I'm very\nsorry--very. But I'll try and forget what I've heard.\"\n\n\"You can't do that,\" said Osborne, still ungraciously. \"But will you\npromise me never to speak about it to any one--not even to me, or to\nRoger? Will you try to act and speak as if you had never heard it?\nI'm sure, from what Roger has told me about you, that if you give me\nthis promise I may rely upon it.\"\n\n\"Yes; I will promise,\" said Molly, putting out her hand as a kind of\npledge. Osborne took it, but rather as if the action was superfluous.\nShe added, \"I think I should have done so, even without a promise.\nBut it is, perhaps, better to bind oneself. I will go away now. I\nwish I'd never come into this room.\"\n\nShe put down her book on the table very softly, and turned to leave\nthe room, choking down her tears until she was in the solitude of her\nown chamber. But Roger was at the door before her, holding it open\nfor her, and reading--she felt that he was reading--her face. He held\nout his hand for hers, and his firm grasp expressed both sympathy and\nregret for what had occurred.\n\nShe could hardly keep back her sobs till she reached her bedroom. Her\nfeelings had been overwrought for some time past, without finding the\nnatural vent in action. The leaving Hamley Hall had seemed so sad\nbefore; and now she was troubled with having to bear away a secret\nwhich she ought never to have known, and the knowledge of which had\nbrought out a very uncomfortable responsibility. Then there would\narise a very natural wonder as to who Osborne's wife was. Molly had\nnot stayed so long and so intimately in the Hamley family without\nbeing well aware of the manner in which the future lady of Hamley was\nplanned for. The Squire, for instance, partly in order to show that\nOsborne, his heir, was above the reach of Molly Gibson, the doctor's\ndaughter, in the early days before he knew Molly well, had often\nalluded to the grand, the high, and the wealthy marriage which Hamley\nof Hamley, as represented by his clever, brilliant, handsome son\nOsborne, might be expected to make. Mrs. Hamley, too, unconsciously\non her part, showed the projects that she was constantly devising for\nthe reception of the unknown daughter-in-law that was to be.\n\n\"The drawing-room must be refurnished when Osborne marries\"--or\n\"Osborne's wife will like to have the west suite of rooms to herself;\nit will perhaps be a trial to her to live with the old couple; but we\nmust arrange it so that she will feel it as little as possible.\"--\"Of\ncourse, when Mrs. Osborne comes we must try and give her a new\ncarriage; the old one does well enough for us.\"--These, and similar\nspeeches had given Molly the impression of the future Mrs. Osborne as\nof some beautiful grand young lady, whose very presence would make\nthe old Hall into a stately, formal mansion, instead of the pleasant,\nunceremonious home that it was at present. Osborne, too, who had\nspoken with such languid criticism to Mrs. Gibson about various\ncountry belles, and even in his own home was apt to give himself\nairs--only at home his airs were poetically fastidious, while with\nMrs. Gibson they had been socially fastidious--what unspeakably\nelegant beauty had he chosen for his wife? Who had satisfied him; and\nyet satisfying him, had to have her marriage kept in concealment from\nhis parents? At length Molly tore herself up from her wonderings. It\nwas of no use: she could not find out; she might not even try. The\nblank wall of her promise blocked up the way. Perhaps it was not even\nright to wonder, and endeavour to remember slight speeches, casual\nmentions of a name, so as to piece them together into something\ncoherent. Molly dreaded seeing either of the brothers again; but they\nall met at dinner-time as if nothing had happened. The Squire was\ntaciturn, either from melancholy or displeasure. He had never spoken\nto Osborne since his return, excepting about the commonest trifles,\nwhen intercourse could not be avoided; and his wife's state oppressed\nhim like a heavy cloud coming over the light of his day. Osborne put\non an indifferent manner to his father, which Molly felt sure was\nassumed; but it was not conciliatory for all that. Roger, quiet,\nsteady, and natural, talked more than all the others; but he too\nwas uneasy, and in distress on many accounts. To-day he principally\naddressed himself to Molly; entering into rather long narrations of\nlate discoveries in natural history, which kept up the current of\ntalk without requiring much reply from any one. Molly had expected\nOsborne to look something different from usual--conscious, or\nashamed, or resentful, or even \"married\"--but he was exactly the\nOsborne of the morning--handsome, elegant, languid in manner and in\nlook; cordial with his brother, polite towards her, secretly uneasy\nat the state of things between his father and himself. She would\nnever have guessed the concealed romance which lay _perdu_ under\nthat every-day behaviour. She had always wished to come into direct\ncontact with a love-story: here she had, and she only found it very\nuncomfortable; there was a sense of concealment and uncertainty about\nit all; and her honest straightforward father, her quiet life at\nHollingford, which, even with all its drawbacks, was above-board,\nand where everybody knew what everybody was doing, seemed secure and\npleasant in comparison. Of course she felt great pain at quitting\nthe Hall, and at the mute farewell she had taken of her sleeping\nand unconscious friend. But leaving Mrs. Hamley now was a different\nthing to what it had been a fortnight ago. Then she was wanted at any\nmoment, and felt herself to be of comfort. Now her very existence\nseemed forgotten by the poor lady whose body appeared to be living so\nlong after her soul.\n\nShe was sent home in the carriage, loaded with true thanks from every\none of the family. Osborne ransacked the greenhouses for flowers for\nher; Roger had chosen her out books of every kind. The Squire himself\nkept shaking her hand, without being able to speak his gratitude,\ntill at last he took her in his arms, and kissed her as he would have\ndone a daughter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nCYNTHIA'S ARRIVAL.\n\n\nMolly's father was not at home when she returned; and there was no\none to give her a welcome. Mrs. Gibson was out paying calls, the\nservants told Molly. She went upstairs to her own room, meaning to\nunpack and arrange her borrowed books. Rather to her surprise she saw\nthe chamber, corresponding to her own, being dusted; water and towels\ntoo were being carried in.\n\n\"Is any one coming?\" she asked of the housemaid.\n\n\"Missus's daughter from France. Miss Kirkpatrick is coming\nto-morrow.\"\n\nWas Cynthia coming at last? Oh, what a pleasure it would be to have a\ncompanion, a girl, a sister of her own age! Molly's depressed spirits\nsprang up again with bright elasticity. She longed for Mrs. Gibson's\nreturn, to ask her all about it: it must be very sudden, for Mr.\nGibson had said nothing of it at the Hall the day before. No quiet\nreading now; the books were hardly put away with Molly's usual\nneatness. She went down into the drawing-room, and could not settle\nto anything. At last Mrs. Gibson came home, tired out with her walk\nand her heavy velvet cloak. Until that was taken off, and she had\nrested herself for a few minutes, she seemed quite unable to attend\nto Molly's questions.\n\n\"Oh, yes! Cynthia is coming home to-morrow, by the 'Umpire,' which\npasses through at ten o'clock. What an oppressive day it is for the\ntime of the year! I really am almost ready to faint. Cynthia heard of\nsome opportunity, I believe, and was only too glad to leave school a\nfortnight earlier than we planned. She never gave me the chance of\nwriting to say I did, or did not, like her coming so much before the\ntime; and I shall have to pay for her just the same as if she had\nstopped. And I meant to have asked her to bring me a French bonnet;\nand then you could have had one made after mine. But I'm very glad\nshe's coming, poor dear.\"\n\n\"Is anything the matter with her?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"Oh, no! Why should there be?\"\n\n\"You called her 'poor dear,' and it made me afraid lest she might be\nill.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! It's only a way I got into, when Mr. Kirkpatrick died. A\nfatherless girl--you know one always does call them 'poor dears.' Oh,\nno! Cynthia never is ill. She's as strong as a horse. She never would\nhave felt to-day as I have done. Could you get me a glass of wine and\na biscuit, my dear? I'm really quite faint.\"\n\nMr. Gibson was much more excited about Cynthia's arrival than her\nown mother was. He anticipated her coming as a great pleasure to\nMolly, on whom, in spite of his recent marriage and his new wife, his\ninterests principally centred. He even found time to run upstairs and\nsee the bedrooms of the two girls; for the furniture of which he had\npaid a pretty round sum.\n\n\"Well, I suppose young ladies like their bedrooms decked out in this\nway! It's very pretty certainly, but--\"\n\n\"I liked my own old room better, papa; but perhaps Cynthia is\naccustomed to such decking up.\"\n\n\"Perhaps; at any rate, she'll see we've tried to make it pretty.\nYours is like hers. That's right. It might have hurt her, if hers had\nbeen smarter than yours. Now, good-night in your fine flimsy bed.\"\n\nMolly was up betimes--almost before it was light--arranging her\npretty Hamley flowers in Cynthia's room. She could hardly eat her\nbreakfast that morning. She ran upstairs and put on her things,\nthinking that Mrs. Gibson was quite sure to go down to the \"George\nInn,\" where the \"Umpire\" stopped, to meet her daughter after a two\nyears' absence. But, to her surprise, Mrs. Gibson had arranged\nherself at her great worsted-work frame, just as usual; and she, in\nher turn, was astonished at Molly's bonnet and cloak.\n\n\"Where are you going so early, child? The fog hasn't cleared away\nyet.\"\n\n\"I thought you would go and meet Cynthia; and I wanted to go with\nyou.\"\n\n\"She will be here in half an hour; and dear papa has told the\ngardener to take the wheelbarrow down for her luggage. I'm not sure\nif he is not gone himself.\"\n\n\"Then are not you going?\" asked Molly, with a good deal of\ndisappointment.\n\n\"No, certainly not. She will be here almost directly. And, besides,\nI don't like to expose my feelings to every passer-by in High Street.\nYou forget I have not seen her for two years, and I hate scenes in\nthe market-place.\"\n\nShe settled herself to her work again; and Molly, after some\nconsideration, gave up her own going, and employed herself in looking\nout of the downstairs window which commanded the approach from the\ntown.\n\n\"Here she is--here she is!\" she cried out at last. Her father was\nwalking by the side of a tall young lady; William the gardener\nwas wheeling along a great cargo of baggage. Molly flew to the\nfront-door, and had it wide open to admit the new-comer some time\nbefore she arrived.\n\n\"Well! here she is. Molly, this is Cynthia. Cynthia, Molly. You're to\nbe sisters, you know.\"\n\nMolly saw the beautiful, tall, swaying figure, against the light of\nthe open door, but could not see any of the features that were, for\nthe moment, in shadow. A sudden gush of shyness had come over her\njust at the instant, and quenched the embrace she would have given a\nmoment before. But Cynthia took her in her arms, and kissed her on\nboth cheeks.\n\n\"Here's mamma,\" she said, looking beyond Molly on to the stairs where\nMrs. Gibson stood, wrapped up in a shawl, and shivering in the cold.\nShe ran past Molly and Mr. Gibson, who rather averted their eyes from\nthis first greeting between mother and child.\n\nMrs. Gibson said--\n\n\"Why, how you are grown, darling! You look quite a woman.\"\n\n\"And so I am,\" said Cynthia. \"I was before I went away; I've hardly\ngrown since,--except, it is always to be hoped, in wisdom.\"\n\n\"Yes! That we will hope,\" said Mrs. Gibson, in rather a meaning\nway. Indeed there were evidently hidden allusions in their seeming\ncommonplace speeches. When they all came into the full light and\nrepose of the drawing-room, Molly was absorbed in the contemplation\nof Cynthia's beauty. Perhaps her features were not regular; but the\nchanges in her expressive countenance gave one no time to think of\nthat. Her smile was perfect; her pouting charming; the play of the\nface was in the mouth. Her eyes were beautifully shaped, but their\nexpression hardly seemed to vary. In colouring she was not unlike\nher mother; only she had not so much of the red-haired tints in her\ncomplexion; and her long-shaped, serious grey eyes were fringed with\ndark lashes, instead of her mother's insipid flaxen ones. Molly fell\nin love with her, so to speak, on the instant. She sate there warming\nher feet and hands, as much at her ease as if she had been there all\nher life; not particularly attending to her mother--who, all the\ntime, was studying either her or her dress--measuring Molly and Mr.\nGibson with grave observant looks, as if guessing how she should like\nthem.\n\n\"There's hot breakfast ready for you in the dining-room, when you are\nready for it,\" said Mr. Gibson. \"I'm sure you must want it after your\nnight journey.\" He looked round at his wife, at Cynthia's mother, but\nshe did not seem inclined to leave the warm room again.\n\n\"Molly will take you to your room, darling,\" said she; \"it is near\nhers, and she has got her things to take off. I'll come down and sit\nin the dining-room while you are having your breakfast, but I really\nam afraid of the cold now.\"\n\nCynthia rose and followed Molly upstairs.\n\n\"I'm so sorry there isn't a fire for you,\" said Molly, \"but--I\nsuppose it wasn't ordered; and, of course, I don't give any orders.\nHere is some hot water, though.\"\n\n\"Stop a minute,\" said Cynthia, getting hold of both Molly's hands,\nand looking steadily into her face, but in such a manner that she did\nnot dislike the inspection.\n\n\"I think I shall like you. I am so glad! I was afraid I should not.\nWe're all in a very awkward position together, aren't we? I like your\nfather's looks, though.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: FIRST IMPRESSIONS.]\n\n\nMolly could not help smiling at the way this was said. Cynthia\nreplied to her smile.\n\n\"Ah, you may laugh. But I don't know that I am easy to get on with;\nmamma and I didn't suit when we were last together. But perhaps we\nare each of us wiser now. Now, please leave me for a quarter of an\nhour. I don't want anything more.\"\n\nMolly went into her own room, waiting to show Cynthia down to the\ndining-room. Not that, in the moderate-sized house, there was any\ndifficulty in finding the way. A very little trouble in conjecturing\nwould enable a stranger to discover any room. But Cynthia had\nso captivated Molly, that she wanted to devote herself to the\nnew-comer's service. Ever since she had heard of the probability\nof her having a sister--(she called her a sister, but whether it was\na Scotch sister, or a sister _à la mode de Brétagne_, would have\npuzzled most people)--Molly had allowed her fancy to dwell much on\nthe idea of Cynthia's coming; and in the short time since they had\nmet, Cynthia's unconscious power of fascination had been exercised\nupon her. Some people have this power. Of course, its effects are\nonly manifested in the susceptible. A school-girl may be found in\nevery school who attracts and influences all the others, not by her\nvirtues, nor her beauty, nor her sweetness, nor her cleverness, but\nby something that can neither be described nor reasoned upon. It is\nthe something alluded to in the old lines:--\n\n   Love me not for comely grace,\n   For my pleasing eye and face;\n   No, nor for my constant heart,--\n   For these may change, and turn to ill,\n   And thus true love may sever.\n   But love me on, and know not why,\n   So hast thou the same reason still\n   To dote upon me ever.\n\nA woman will have this charm, not only over men but over her own\nsex; it cannot be defined, or rather it is so delicate a mixture\nof many gifts and qualities that it is impossible to decide on the\nproportions of each. Perhaps it is incompatible with very high\nprinciple; as its essence seems to consist in the most exquisite\npower of adaptation to varying people and still more various moods;\n\"being all things to all men.\" At any rate, Molly might soon have\nbeen aware that Cynthia was not remarkable for unflinching morality;\nbut the glamour thrown over her would have prevented Molly from any\nattempt at penetrating into and judging her companion's character,\neven had such processes been the least in accordance with her own\ndisposition.\n\nCynthia was very beautiful, and was so well aware of this fact that\nshe had forgotten to care about it; no one with such loveliness ever\nappeared so little conscious of it. Molly would watch her perpetually\nas she moved about the room, with the free stately step of some wild\nanimal of the forest--moving almost, as it were, to the continual\nsound of music. Her dress, too, though now to our ideas it would\nbe considered ugly and disfiguring, was suited to her complexion\nand figure, and the fashion of it subdued within due bounds by her\nexquisite taste. It was inexpensive enough, and the changes in it\nwere but few. Mrs. Gibson professed herself shocked to find that\nCynthia had but four gowns, when she might have stocked herself so\nwell, and brought over so many useful French patterns, if she had but\npatiently waited for her mother's answer to the letter which she had\nsent, announcing her return by the opportunity madame had found for\nher. Molly was hurt for Cynthia at all these speeches; she thought\nthey implied that the pleasure which her mother felt in seeing her a\nfortnight sooner after her two years' absence was inferior to that\nwhich she would have received from a bundle of silver-paper patterns.\nBut Cynthia took no apparent notice of the frequent recurrence of\nthese small complaints. Indeed, she received much of what her mother\nsaid with a kind of complete indifference, that made Mrs. Gibson hold\nher rather in awe; and she was much more communicative to Molly than\nto her own child. With regard to dress, however, Cynthia soon showed\nthat she was her mother's own daughter in the manner in which she\ncould use her deft and nimble fingers. She was a capital workwoman;\nand, unlike Molly, who excelled in plain sewing, but had no notion of\ndressmaking or millinery, she could repeat the fashions she had only\nseen in passing along the streets of Boulogne, with one or two pretty\nrapid movements of her hands, as she turned and twisted the ribbons\nand gauze her mother furnished her with. So she refurbished Mrs.\nGibson's wardrobe; doing it all in a sort of contemptuous manner, the\nsource of which Molly could not quite make out.\n\nDay after day the course of these small frivolities was broken in\nupon by the news Mr. Gibson brought of Mrs. Hamley's nearer approach\nto death. Molly--very often sitting by Cynthia, and surrounded by\nribbon, and wire, and net--heard the bulletins like the toll of a\nfuneral bell at a marriage feast. Her father sympathized with her. It\nwas the loss of a dear friend to him too; but he was so accustomed to\ndeath, that it seemed to him but as it was, the natural end of all\nthings human. To Molly, the death of some one she had known so well\nand loved so much, was a sad and gloomy phenomenon. She loathed the\nsmall vanities with which she was surrounded, and would wander out\ninto the frosty garden, and pace the walk, which was both sheltered\nand concealed by evergreens.\n\nAt length--and yet it was not so long, not a fortnight since Molly\nhad left the Hall--the end came. Mrs. Hamley had sunk out of life as\ngradually as she had sunk out of consciousness and her place in this\nworld. The quiet waves closed over her, and her place knew her no\nmore.\n\n\"They all sent their love to you, Molly,\" said her father. \"Roger\nsaid he knew how you would feel it.\"\n\nMr. Gibson had come in very late, and was having a solitary dinner\nin the dining-room. Molly was sitting near him to keep him company.\nCynthia and her mother were upstairs. The latter was trying on a\nhead-dress which Cynthia had made for her.\n\nMolly remained downstairs after her father had gone out afresh on\nhis final round among his town patients. The fire was growing very\nlow, and the lights were waning. Cynthia came softly in, and taking\nMolly's listless hand, that hung down by her side, sat at her feet\non the rug, chafing her chilly fingers without speaking. The tender\naction thawed the tears that had been gathering heavily at Molly's\nheart, and they came dropping down her cheeks.\n\n\"You loved her dearly, did you not, Molly?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" sobbed Molly; and then there was a silence.\n\n\"Had you known her long?\"\n\n\"No, not a year. But I had seen a great deal of her. I was almost\nlike a daughter to her; she said so. Yet I never bid her good-by, or\nanything. Her mind became weak and confused.\"\n\n\"She had only sons, I think?\"\n\n\"No; only Mr. Osborne and Mr. Roger Hamley. She had a daughter\nonce--'Fanny.' Sometimes, in her illness, she used to call me\n'Fanny.'\"\n\nThe two girls were silent for some time, both gazing into the fire.\nCynthia spoke first:--\n\n\"I wish I could love people as you do, Molly!\"\n\n\"Don't you?\" said the other, in surprise.\n\n\"No. A good number of people love me, I believe, or at least they\nthink they do; but I never seem to care much for any one. I do\nbelieve I love you, little Molly, whom I have only known for ten\ndays, better than any one.\"\n\n\"Not than your mother?\" said Molly, in grave astonishment.\n\n\"Yes, than my mother!\" replied Cynthia, half-smiling. \"It's very\nshocking, I daresay; but it is so. Now, don't go and condemn me. I\ndon't think love for one's mother quite comes by nature; and remember\nhow much I have been separated from mine! I loved my father, if you\nwill,\" she continued, with the force of truth in her tone, and then\nshe stopped; \"but he died when I was quite a little thing, and no one\nbelieves that I remember him. I heard mamma say to a caller, not a\nfortnight after his funeral, 'Oh, no, Cynthia is too young; she has\nquite forgotten him'--and I bit my lips, to keep from crying out,\n'Papa! papa! have I?' But it's of no use. Well, then mamma had to go\nout as a governess; she couldn't help it, poor thing! but she didn't\nmuch care for parting with me. I was a trouble, I daresay. So I was\nsent to school at four years old; first one school, and then another;\nand in the holidays, mamma went to stay at grand houses, and I was\ngenerally left with the schoolmistresses. Once I went to the Towers;\nand mamma lectured me continually, and yet I was very naughty, I\nbelieve. And so I never went again; and I was very glad of it, for it\nwas a horrid place.\"\n\n\"That it was!\" said Molly, who remembered her own day of tribulation\nthere.\n\n\"And once I went to London, to stay with my uncle Kirkpatrick. He is\na lawyer, and getting on now; but then he was poor enough, and had\nsix or seven children. It was winter-time, and we were all shut up in\na small house in Doughty Street. But, after all, that wasn't so bad.\"\n\n\"But then you lived with your mother when she began school at\nAshcombe. Mr. Preston told me that, when I stayed that day at the\nManor-house.\"\n\n\"What did he tell you?\" asked Cynthia, almost fiercely.\n\n\"Nothing but that. Oh, yes! He praised your beauty, and wanted me to\ntell you what he had said.\"\n\n\"I should have hated you if you had,\" said Cynthia.\n\n\"Of course I never thought of doing such a thing,\" replied Molly. \"I\ndidn't like him; and Lady Harriet spoke of him the next day, as if he\nwasn't a person to be liked.\"\n\nCynthia was quite silent. At length she said,--\n\n\"I wish I was good!\"\n\n\"So do I,\" said Molly, simply. She was thinking again of Mrs.\nHamley,--\n\n   Only the actions of the just\n   Smell sweet and blossom in the dust,\n\nand \"goodness\" just then seemed to her to be the only enduring thing\nin the world.\n\n\"Nonsense, Molly! You are good. At least, if you're not good, what\nam I? There's a rule-of-three sum for you to do! But it's no use\ntalking; I am not good, and I never shall be now. Perhaps I might be\na heroine still, but I shall never be a good woman, I know.\"\n\n\"Do you think it easier to be a heroine?\"\n\n\"Yes, as far as one knows of heroines from history. I'm capable of a\ngreat jerk, an effort, and then a relaxation--but steady, every-day\ngoodness is beyond me. I must be a moral kangaroo!\"\n\nMolly could not follow Cynthia's ideas; she could not distract\nherself from the thoughts of the sorrowing group at the Hall.\n\n\"How I should like to see them all! and yet one can do nothing at\nsuch a time! Papa says the funeral is to be on Tuesday, and that,\nafter that, Roger Hamley is to go back to Cambridge. It will seem\nas if nothing had happened! I wonder how the squire and Mr. Osborne\nHamley will get on together.\"\n\n\"He's the eldest son, is he not? Why shouldn't he and his father get\non well together?\"\n\n\"Oh! I don't know. That is to say, I do know, but I think I ought not\nto tell.\"\n\n\"Don't be so pedantically truthful, Molly. Besides, your manner shows\nwhen you speak truth and when you speak falsehood, without troubling\nyourself to use words. I knew exactly what your 'I don't know' meant.\nI never consider myself bound to be truthful, so I beg we may be on\nequal terms.\"\n\nCynthia might well say she did not consider herself bound to be\ntruthful; she literally said what came uppermost, without caring very\nmuch whether it was accurate or not. But there was no ill-nature,\nand, in a general way, no attempt at procuring any advantage for\nherself in all her deviations; and there was often such a latent\nsense of fun in them that Molly could not help being amused with them\nin fact, though she condemned them in theory. Cynthia's playfulness\nof manner glossed such failings over with a kind of charm; and yet,\nat times, she was so soft and sympathetic that Molly could not resist\nher, even when she affirmed the most startling things. The little\naccount she made of her own beauty pleased Mr. Gibson extremely; and\nher pretty deference to him won his heart. She was restless too, till\nshe had attacked Molly's dress, after she had remodelled her\nmother's.\n\n\"Now for you, sweet one,\" said she as she began upon one of Molly's\ngowns. \"I've been working as connoisseur until now; now I begin as\namateur.\"\n\nShe brought down her pretty artificial flowers, plucked out of her\nown best bonnet to put into Molly's, saying they would suit her\ncomplexion, and that a knot of ribbons would do well enough for her.\nAll the time she worked, she sang; she had a sweet voice in singing,\nas well as in speaking, and used to run up and down her gay French\n_chansons_ without any difficulty; so flexible in the art was she.\nYet she did not seem to care for music. She rarely touched the piano,\non which Molly practised with daily conscientiousness. Cynthia was\nalways willing to answer questions about her previous life, though,\nafter the first, she rarely alluded to it of herself; but she was a\nmost sympathetic listener to all Molly's innocent confidences of joys\nand sorrows: sympathizing even to the extent of wondering how she\ncould endure Mr. Gibson's second marriage, and why she did not take\nsome active steps of rebellion.\n\nIn spite of all this agreeable and pungent variety of companionship\nat home, Molly yearned after the Hamleys. If there had been a woman\nin that family she would probably have received many little notes,\nand heard numerous details which were now lost to her, or summed\nup in condensed accounts of her father's visits at the Hall, which,\nsince his dear patient was dead, were only occasional.\n\n\"Yes! The Squire is a good deal changed; but he's better than he was.\nThere's an unspoken estrangement between him and Osborne; one can\nsee it in the silence and constraint of their manners; but outwardly\nthey are friendly--civil at any rate. The squire will always respect\nOsborne as his heir, and the future representative of the family.\nOsborne doesn't look well; he says he wants change. I think he's\nweary of the domestic dullness, or domestic dissension. But he feels\nhis mother's death acutely. It's a wonder that he and his father are\nnot drawn together by their common loss. Roger's away at Cambridge\ntoo--examination for the mathematical tripos. Altogether the aspect\nof both people and place is changed; it is but natural!\"\n\nSuch is perhaps the summing-up of the news of the Hamleys, as\ncontained in many bulletins. They always ended in some kind message\nto Molly.\n\nMrs. Gibson generally said, as a comment upon her husband's account\nof Osborne's melancholy,--\n\n\"My dear! why don't you ask him to dinner here? A little quiet\ndinner, you know. Cook is quite up to it; and we would all of us wear\nblacks and lilacs; he couldn't consider that as gaiety.\"\n\nMr. Gibson took no more notice of these suggestions than by shaking\nhis head. He had grown accustomed to his wife by this time, and\nregarded silence on his own part as a great preservative against long\ninconsequential arguments. But every time that Mrs. Gibson was struck\nby Cynthia's beauty, she thought it more and more advisable that Mr.\nOsborne Hamley should be cheered up by a quiet little dinner-party.\nAs yet no one but the ladies of Hollingford and Mr. Ashton, the\nvicar--that hopeless and impracticable old bachelor--had seen\nCynthia; and what was the good of having a lovely daughter, if there\nwere none but old women to admire her?\n\nCynthia herself appeared extremely indifferent upon the subject,\nand took very little notice of her mother's constant talk about the\ngaieties that were possible, and the gaieties that were impossible,\nin Hollingford. She exerted herself just as much to charm the two\nMiss Brownings as she would have done to delight Osborne Hamley,\nor any other young heir. That is to say, she used no exertion, but\nsimply followed her own nature, which was to attract every one of\nthose she was thrown amongst. The exertion seemed rather to be\nto refrain from doing so, and to protest, as she often did, by\nslight words and expressive looks against her mother's words and\nhumours--alike against her folly and her caresses. Molly was almost\nsorry for Mrs. Gibson, who seemed so unable to gain influence over\nher child. One day Cynthia read Molly's thought.\n\n\"I'm not good, and I told you so. Somehow, I cannot forgive her\nfor her neglect of me as a child, when I would have clung to her.\nBesides, I hardly ever heard from her when I was at school. And I\nknow she put a stop to my coming over to her wedding. I saw the\nletter she wrote to Madame Lefevre. A child should be brought up with\nits parents, if it is to think them infallible when it grows up.\"\n\n\"But though it may know that there must be faults,\" replied Molly,\n\"it ought to cover them over and try to forget their existence.\"\n\n\"It ought. But don't you see I have grown up outside the pale of\nduty and 'oughts.' Love me as I am, sweet one, for I shall never be\nbetter.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nMRS. GIBSON'S VISITORS.\n\n\nOne day, to Molly's infinite surprise, Mr. Preston was announced\nas a caller. Mrs. Gibson and she were sitting together in the\ndrawing-room; Cynthia was out--gone into the town a-shopping--when\nthe door was opened, the name given, and in walked the young man. His\nentrance seemed to cause more confusion than Molly could well account\nfor. He came in with the same air of easy assurance with which he\nhad received her and her father at Ashcombe Manor-house. He looked\nremarkably handsome in his riding-dress, and with the open-air\nexercise he had just had. But Mrs. Gibson's smooth brows contracted a\nlittle at the sight of him, and her reception of him was much cooler\nthan that which she usually gave to visitors. Yet there was a degree\nof agitation in it, which surprised Molly a little. Mrs. Gibson was\nat her everlasting worsted-work frame when Mr. Preston entered the\nroom; but somehow in rising to receive him, she threw down her basket\nof crewels, and, declining Molly's offer to help her, she would pick\nup all the reels herself, before she asked her visitor to sit down.\nHe stood there, hat in hand, affecting an interest in the recovery of\nthe worsted which Molly was sure he did not feel; for all the time\nhis eyes were glancing round the room, and taking note of the details\nin the arrangement.\n\nAt length they were seated, and conversation began.\n\n\"It is the first time I have been in Hollingford since your marriage,\nMrs. Gibson, or I should certainly have called to pay my respects\nsooner.\"\n\n\"I know you are very busy at Ashcombe. I did not expect you to call.\nIs Lord Cumnor at the Towers? I have not heard from her ladyship for\nmore than a week!\"\n\n\"No! he seemed still detained at Bath. But I had a letter from him\ngiving me certain messages for Mr. Sheepshanks. Mr. Gibson is not at\nhome, I'm afraid?\"\n\n\"No. He is a great deal out--almost constantly, I may say. I had no\nidea that I should see so little of him. A doctor's wife leads a very\nsolitary life, Mr. Preston!\"\n\n\"You can hardly call it solitary, I should think, when you have such\na companion as Miss Gibson always at hand,\" said he, bowing to Molly.\n\n\"Oh, but I call it solitude for a wife when her husband is away. Poor\nMr. Kirkpatrick was never happy unless I always went with him;--all\nhis walks, all his visits, he liked me to be with him. But, somehow,\nMr. Gibson feels as if I should be rather in his way.\"\n\n\"I don't think you could ride pillion behind him on Black Bess,\nmamma,\" said Molly. \"And unless you could do that, you could hardly\ngo with him in his rounds up and down all the rough lanes.\"\n\n\"Oh! but he might keep a brougham! I've often said so. And then I\ncould use it for visiting in the evenings. Really it was one reason\nwhy I didn't go to the Hollingford Charity Ball. I couldn't bring\nmyself to use the dirty fly from the 'George.' We really must stir\npapa up against next winter, Molly; it will never do for you and--\"\n\nShe pulled herself up suddenly, and looked furtively at Mr. Preston\nto see if he had taken any notice of her abruptness. Of course he\nhad, but he was not going to show it. He turned to Molly, and said,--\n\n\"Have you ever been to a public ball yet, Miss Gibson?\"\n\n\"No!\" said Molly.\n\n\"It will be a great pleasure to you when the time comes.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. I shall like it if I have plenty of partners; but I'm\nafraid I shan't know many people.\"\n\n\"And you suppose that young men haven't their own ways and means of\nbeing introduced to pretty girls?\"\n\nIt was exactly one of the speeches Molly had disliked him for before;\nand delivered, too, in that kind of underbred manner which showed\nthat it was meant to convey a personal compliment. Molly took great\ncredit to herself for the unconcerned manner with which she went on\nwith her tatting exactly as if she had never heard it.\n\n\"I only hope I may be one of your partners at the first ball you go\nto. Pray, remember my early application for that honour, when you are\noverwhelmed with requests for dances.\"\n\n\"I don't choose to engage myself beforehand,\" said Molly, perceiving,\nfrom under her dropped eyelids, that he was leaning forward and\nlooking at her as though he was determined to have an answer.\n\n\"Young ladies are always very cautious in fact, however modest they\nmay be in profession,\" he replied, addressing himself in a nonchalant\nmanner to Mrs. Gibson. \"In spite of Miss Gibson's apprehension of not\nhaving many partners, she declines the certainty of having one. I\nsuppose Miss Kirkpatrick will have returned from France before then?\"\n\nHe said these last words exactly in the same tone as he had used\nbefore; but Molly's instinct told her that he was making an effort to\ndo so. She looked up. He was playing with his hat, almost as if he\ndid not care to have any answer to his question. Yet he was listening\nacutely, and with a half smile on his face.\n\nMrs. Gibson reddened a little, and hesitated,--\n\n\"Yes; certainly. My daughter will be with us next winter, I believe;\nand I daresay she will go out with us.\"\n\n\"Why can't she say at once that Cynthia is here now?\" asked Molly of\nherself, yet glad that Mr. Preston's curiosity was baffled.\n\nHe still smiled; but this time he looked up at Mrs. Gibson, as he\nasked,--\"You have good news from her, I hope?\"\n\n\"Yes; very. By the way, how are our old friends the Robinsons? How\noften I think of their kindness to me at Ashcombe! Dear good people,\nI wish I could see them again.\"\n\n\"I will certainly tell them of your kind inquiries. They are very\nwell, I believe.\"\n\nJust at this moment, Molly heard the familiar sound of the click\nand opening of the front door. She knew it must be Cynthia; and,\nconscious of some mysterious reason which made Mrs. Gibson wish to\nconceal her daughter's whereabouts from Mr. Preston, and maliciously\ndesirous to baffle him, she rose to leave the room, and meet Cynthia\non the stairs; but one of the lost crewels of worsted had entangled\nitself in her gown and feet, and before she had freed herself of the\nencumbrance, Cynthia had opened the drawing-room door, and stood\nin it, looking at her mother, at Molly, at Mr. Preston, but not\nadvancing one step. Her colour, which had been brilliant the first\nmoment of her entrance, faded away as she gazed; but her eyes--her\nbeautiful eyes--usually so soft and grave, seemed to fill with fire,\nand her brows to contract, as she took the resolution to come forward\nand take her place among the three, who were all looking at her with\ndifferent emotions. She moved calmly and slowly forwards; Mr. Preston\nwent a step or two to meet her, his hand held out, and the whole\nexpression of his face that of eager delight.\n\nBut she took no notice of the outstretched hand, nor of the chair\nthat he offered her. She sate down on a little sofa in one of the\nwindows, and called Molly to her.\n\n\"Look at my purchases,\" said she. \"This green ribbon was\nfourteen-pence a yard, this silk three shillings,\" and so she went\non, forcing herself to speak about these trifles as if they were\nall the world to her, and she had no attention to throw away on her\nmother and her mother's visitor.\n\nMr. Preston took his cue from her. He, too, talked of the news of\nthe day, the local gossip--but Molly, who glanced up at him from\ntime to time, was almost alarmed by the bad expression of suppressed\nanger, almost amounting to vindictiveness, which entirely marred his\nhandsome looks. She did not wish to look again; and tried rather to\nback up Cynthia's efforts at maintaining a separate conversation. Yet\nshe could not help overhearing Mrs. Gibson's strain after increased\ncivility, as if to make up for Cynthia's rudeness, and, if possible,\nto deprecate his anger. She talked perpetually, as though her object\nwere to detain him; whereas, previous to Cynthia's return, she had\nallowed frequent pauses in the conversation, as though to give him\nthe opportunity to take his leave.\n\nIn the course of the conversation between them the Hamleys came up.\nMrs. Gibson was never unwilling to dwell upon Molly's intimacy with\nthis county family; and when the latter caught the sound of her own\nname, her stepmother was saying,--\n\n\"Poor Mrs. Hamley could hardly do without Molly; she quite looked\nupon her as a daughter, especially towards the last, when, I am\nafraid, she had a good deal of anxiety. Mr. Osborne Hamley--I daresay\nyou have heard--he did not do so well at college, and they had\nexpected so much--parents will, you know; but what did it signify?\nfor he had not to earn his living! I call it a very foolish kind of\nambition when a young man has not to go into a profession.\"\n\n\"Well, at any rate, the Squire must be satisfied now. I saw this\nmorning's _Times_, with the Cambridge examination lists in it. Isn't\nthe second son called after his father, Roger?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Molly, starting up, and coming nearer.\n\n\"He's senior wrangler, that's all,\" said Mr. Preston, almost as\nthough he were vexed with himself for having anything to say that\ncould give her pleasure. Molly went back to her seat by Cynthia.\n\n\"Poor Mrs. Hamley,\" said she, very softly, as if to herself. Cynthia\ntook her hand, in sympathy with Molly's sad and tender look, rather\nthan because she understood all that was passing in her mind, nor did\nshe quite understand it herself. A death that had come out of time;\na wonder whether the dead knew what passed upon the earth they had\nleft--the brilliant Osborne's failure, Roger's success; the vanity\nof human wishes,--all these thoughts, and what they suggested, were\ninextricably mingled up in her mind. She came to herself in a few\nminutes. Mr. Preston was saying all the unpleasant things he could\nthink of about the Hamleys in a tone of false sympathy.\n\n\"The poor old Squire--not the wisest of men--has woefully mismanaged\nhis estate. And Osborne Hamley is too fine a gentleman to understand\nthe means by which to improve the value of the land--even if he had\nthe capital. A man who had practical knowledge of agriculture, and\nsome thousands of ready money, might bring the rental up to eight\nthousand or so. Of course, Osborne will try and marry some one with\nmoney; the family is old and well-established, and he mustn't object\nto commercial descent, though I daresay the Squire will for him; but\nthen the young fellow himself is not the man for the work. No! the\nfamily's going down fast; and it's a pity when these old Saxon houses\nvanish off the land; but it is 'kismet' with the Hamleys. Even the\nsenior wrangler--if it is that Roger Hamley--he will have spent all\nhis brains in one effort. You never hear of a senior wrangler being\nworth anything afterwards. He'll be a Fellow of his college, of\ncourse--that will be a livelihood for him at any rate.\"\n\n\"I believe in senior wranglers,\" said Cynthia, her clear high voice\nringing through the room. \"And from all I've ever heard of Mr. Roger\nHamley, I believe he will keep up the distinction he has earned. And\nI don't believe that the house of Hamley is so near extinction in\nwealth and fame, and good name.\"\n\n\"They are fortunate in having Miss Kirkpatrick's good word,\" said Mr.\nPreston, rising to take his leave.\n\n\"Dear Molly,\" said Cynthia, in a whisper, \"I know nothing about your\nfriends the Hamleys, except that they are your friends, and what you\nhave told me about them. But I won't have that man speaking of them\nso--and your eyes filling with tears all the time. I'd sooner swear\nto their having all the talents and good fortune under the sun.\"\n\nThe only person of whom Cynthia appeared to be wholesomely afraid\nwas Mr. Gibson. When he was present she was more careful in speaking,\nand showed more deference to her mother. Her evident respect for him,\nand desire to win his good opinion, made her curb herself before him;\nand in this manner she earned his favour as a lively, sensible girl,\nwith just so much knowledge of the world as made her a very desirable\ncompanion to Molly. Indeed, she made something of the same kind of\nimpression on all men. They were first struck with her personal\nappearance; and then with her pretty deprecating manner, which\nappealed to them much as if she had said, \"You are wise, and I am\nfoolish--have mercy on my folly.\" It was a way she had; it meant\nnothing really; and she was hardly conscious of it herself; but it\nwas very captivating all the same. Even old Williams, the gardener,\nfelt it; he said to his confidante, Molly--\n\n\"Eh, miss, but that be a rare young lady! She do have such pretty\ncoaxing ways. I be to teach her to bud roses come the season--and\nI'll warrant ye she'll learn sharp enough, for all she says she bees\nso stupid.\"\n\nIf Molly had not had the sweetest disposition in the world she might\nhave become jealous of all the allegiance laid at Cynthia's feet;\nbut she never thought of comparing the amount of admiration and\nlove which they each received. Yet once she did feel a little as\nif Cynthia were poaching on her manor. The invitation to the quiet\ndinner had been sent to Osborne Hamley, and declined by him. But he\nthought it right to call soon afterwards. It was the first time Molly\nhad seen any of the family since she left the Hall, just before Mrs.\nHamley's death; and there was so much that she wanted to ask. She\ntried to wait patiently till Mrs. Gibson had exhausted the first gush\nof her infinite nothings; and then Molly came in with her modest\nquestions. How was the Squire? Had he returned to his old habits? Had\nhis health suffered?--putting each inquiry with as light and delicate\na touch as if she had been dressing a wound. She hesitated a little,\na very little, before speaking of Roger; for just one moment the\nthought flitted across her mind, that Osborne might feel the contrast\nbetween his own and his brother's college career too painfully to\nlike to have it referred to; but then she remembered the generous\nbrotherly love that had always existed between the two, and had just\nentered upon the subject, when Cynthia in obedience to her mother's\nsummons, came into the room, and took up her work. No one could have\nbeen quieter--she hardly uttered a word; but Osborne seemed to fall\nunder her power at once. He no longer gave his undivided attention\nto Molly. He cut short his answers to her questions; and by-and-by,\nwithout Molly's rightly understanding how it was, he had turned\ntowards Cynthia, and was addressing himself to her. Molly saw the\nlook of content on Mrs. Gibson's face; perhaps it was her own\nmortification at not having heard all she wished to know about Roger,\nwhich gave her a keener insight than usual, but certain it is that\nall at once she perceived that Mrs. Gibson would not dislike a\nmarriage between Osborne and Cynthia, and considered the present\noccasion as an auspicious beginning. Remembering the secret which she\nhad been let into so unwillingly, Molly watched his behaviour, almost\nas if she had been retained in the interest of the absent wife; but,\nafter all, thinking as much of the possibility of his attracting\nCynthia as of the unknown and mysterious Mrs. Osborne Hamley. His\nmanner was expressive of great interest and of strong prepossession\nin favour of the beautiful girl to whom he was talking. He was in\ndeep mourning, which showed off his slight figure and delicate\nrefined face. But there was nothing of flirting, as far as Molly\nunderstood the meaning of the word, in either looks or words.\nCynthia, too, was extremely quiet; she was always much quieter with\nmen than with women; it was part of the charm of her soft allurement\nthat she was so passive. They were talking of France. Mrs. Gibson\nherself had passed two or three years of her girlhood there; and\nCynthia's late return from Boulogne made it a very natural subject\nof conversation. But Molly was thrown out of it; and with her heart\nstill unsatisfied as to the details of Roger's success, she had to\nstand up at last, and receive Osborne's good-by, scarcely longer or\nmore intimate than his farewell to Cynthia. As soon as he was gone,\nMrs. Gibson began in his praise.\n\n\"Well, really, I begin to have some faith in long descent. What a\ngentleman he is! How agreeable and polite! So different from that\nforward Mr. Preston,\" she continued, looking a little anxiously at\nCynthia. Cynthia, quite aware that her reply was being watched for,\nsaid, coolly,--\n\n\"Mr. Preston doesn't improve on acquaintance. There was a time,\nmamma, when I think both you and I thought him very agreeable.\"\n\n\"I don't remember. You've a clearer memory than I have. But we were\ntalking of this delightful Mr. Osborne Hamley. Why, Molly, you were\nalways talking of his brother--it was Roger this, and Roger that--I\ncan't think how it was you so seldom mentioned this young man.\"\n\n\"I didn't know I had mentioned Mr. Roger Hamley so often,\" said\nMolly, blushing a little. \"But I saw much more of him--he was more at\nhome.\"\n\n\"Well, well! It's all right, my dear. I daresay he suits you best.\nBut really, when I saw Osborne Hamley close to my Cynthia, I couldn't\nhelp thinking--but perhaps I'd better not tell you what I was\nthinking of. Only they are each of them so much above the average in\nappearance; and, of course, that suggests things.\"\n\n\"I perfectly understand what you were thinking of, mamma,\" said\nCynthia, with the greatest composure; \"and so does Molly, I have no\ndoubt.\"\n\n\"Well! there's no harm in it, I'm sure. Did you hear him say that,\nthough he did not like to leave his father alone just at present, yet\nthat when his brother Roger came back from Cambridge, he should feel\nmore at liberty! It was quite as much as to say, 'If you will ask me\nto dinner then, I shall be delighted to come.' And chickens will be\nso much cheaper, and cook has such a nice way of boning them, and\ndoing them up with forcemeat. Everything seems to be falling out\nso fortunately. And Molly, my dear, you know I won't forget you.\nBy-and-by, when Roger Hamley has taken his turn at stopping at home\nwith his father, we will ask him to one of our little quiet dinners.\"\n\nMolly was very slow at taking this in; but in about a minute the\nsense of it had reached her brain, and she went all over very red and\nhot; especially as she saw that Cynthia was watching the light come\ninto her mind with great amusement.\n\n\"I'm afraid Molly isn't properly grateful, mamma. If I were you, I\nwouldn't exert myself to give a dinner-party on her account. Bestow\nall your kindness upon me.\"\n\nMolly was often puzzled by Cynthia's speeches to her mother; and this\nwas one of these occasions. But she was more anxious to say something\nfor herself; she was so much annoyed at the implication in Mrs.\nGibson's last words.\n\n\"Mr. Roger Hamley has been very good to me; he was a great deal at\nhome when I was there, and Mr. Osborne Hamley was very little there:\nthat was the reason I spoke so much more of one than the other. If I\nhad--if he had,\"--losing her coherence in the difficulty of finding\nwords,--\"I don't think I should,--oh, Cynthia, instead of laughing at\nme, I think you might help me to explain myself!\"\n\nInstead, Cynthia gave a diversion to the conversation.\n\n\"Mamma's paragon gives me an idea of weakness. I can't quite make out\nwhether it's in body or mind. Which is it, Molly?\"\n\n\"He is not strong, I know; but he's very accomplished and clever.\nEvery one says that,--even papa, who doesn't generally praise young\nmen. That made the puzzle the greater when he did so badly at\ncollege.\"\n\n\"Then it's his character that is weak. I'm sure there's weakness\nsomewhere; but he's very agreeable. It must have been very pleasant,\nstaying at the Hall.\"\n\n\"Yes; but it's all over now.\"\n\n\"Oh, nonsense!\" said Mrs. Gibson, wakening up from counting the\nstitches in her pattern. \"We shall have the young men coming to\ndinner pretty often, you'll see. Your father likes them, and I shall\nalways make a point of welcoming his friends. They can't go on\nmourning for a mother for ever. I expect we shall see a great deal of\nthem; and that the two families will become very intimate. After all,\nthese good Hollingford people are terribly behindhand, and I should\nsay, rather commonplace.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nTHE HALF-SISTERS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nIt appeared as if Mrs. Gibson's predictions were likely to be\nverified; for Osborne Hamley found his way to her drawing-room pretty\nfrequently. To be sure, sometimes prophets can help on the fulfilment\nof their own prophecies; and Mrs. Gibson was not passive.\n\nMolly was altogether puzzled by his manners and ways. He spoke of\noccasional absences from the Hall, without exactly saying where he\nhad been. But that was not her idea of the conduct of a married man;\nwho, she imagined, ought to have a house and servants, and pay rent\nand taxes, and live with his wife. Who this mysterious wife might be\nfaded into insignificance before the wonder of where she was. London,\nCambridge, Dover, nay, even France, were mentioned by him as places\nto which he had been on these different little journeys. These facts\ncame out quite casually, almost as if he was unaware of what he was\nbetraying. Sometimes he dropped out such sentences as these:--\"Ah,\nthat would be the day I was crossing! It was stormy indeed! Instead\nof our being only two hours, we were nearly five.\" Or, \"I met Lord\nHollingford at Dover last week, and he said,\" &c. \"The cold now is\nnothing to what it was in London on Thursday--the thermometer was\ndown at 15 .\" Perhaps, in the rapid flow of conversation, these\nsmall revelations were noticed by no one but Molly; whose interest\nand curiosity were always hovering over the secret she had become\npossessed of, in spite of all her self-reproach for allowing her\nthoughts to dwell on what was still to be kept as a mystery.\n\nIt was also evident to her that Osborne was not too happy at home.\nHe had lost the slight touch of cynicism which he had affected when\nhe was expected to do wonders at college; and that was one good\nresult of his failure. If he did not give himself the trouble of\nappreciating other people, and their performances, at any rate his\nconversation was not so amply sprinkled with critical pepper. He was\nmore absent, not so agreeable, Mrs. Gibson thought, but did not say.\nHe looked ill in health; but that might be the consequence of the\nreal depression of spirits which Molly occasionally saw peeping out\nthrough all his pleasant surface-talk. Now and then, when he was\ntalking directly to her, he referred to \"the happy days that are\ngone,\" or, \"to the time when my mother was alive;\" and then his voice\nsank, and a gloom came over his countenance, and Molly longed to\nexpress her own deep sympathy. He did not often mention his father;\nand Molly thought she could read in his manner, when he did, that\nsomething of the painful restraint she had noticed when she was last\nat the Hall still existed between them. Nearly every particular she\nknew of the family interior she had heard from Mrs. Hamley, and she\nwas uncertain how far her father was acquainted with them; so she\ndid not like to question him too closely; nor was he a man to be so\nquestioned as to the domestic affairs of his patients. Sometimes she\nwondered if it was a dream--that short half-hour in the library at\nHamley Hall--when she had learnt a fact which seemed so all-important\nto Osborne, yet which made so little difference in his way of\nlife--either in speech or action. During the twelve or fourteen hours\nthat she had remained at the Hall afterwards, no further allusion\nhad been made to his marriage, either by himself or by Roger. It was,\nindeed, very like a dream. Probably Molly would have been rendered\nmuch more uncomfortable in the possession of her secret if Osborne\nhad struck her as particularly attentive in his devotion to Cynthia.\nShe evidently amused and attracted him, but not in any lively or\npassionate kind of way. He admired her beauty, and seemed to feel\nher charm; but he would leave her side, and come to sit near Molly,\nif anything reminded him of his mother, about which he could talk\nto her, and to her alone. Yet he came so often to the Gibsons, that\nMrs. Gibson might be excused for the fancy she had taken into her\nhead, that it was for Cynthia's sake. He liked the lounge, the\nfriendliness, the company of two intelligent girls of beauty and\nmanners above the average; one of whom stood in a peculiar relation\nto him, as having been especially beloved by the mother whose memory\nhe cherished so fondly. Knowing himself to be out of the category\nof bachelors, he was, perhaps, too indifferent as to other people's\nignorance, and its possible consequences.\n\nSomehow, Molly did not like to be the first to introduce Roger's name\ninto the conversation, so she lost many an opportunity of hearing\nintelligence about him. Osborne was often so languid or so absent\nthat he only followed the lead of talk; and as an awkward fellow,\nwho had paid her no particular attention, and as a second son, Roger\nwas not pre-eminent in Mrs. Gibson's thoughts; Cynthia had never\nseen him, and the freak did not take her often to speak about him.\nHe had not come home since he had obtained his high place in the\nmathematical lists: that Molly knew; and she knew, too, that he was\nworking hard for something--she supposed a fellowship--and that was\nall. Osborne's tone in speaking of him was always the same: every\nword, every inflection of the voice breathed out affection and\nrespect--nay, even admiration! And this from the _nil admirari_\nbrother, who seldom carried his exertions so far.\n\n\"Ah, Roger!\" he said one day. Molly caught the name in an instant,\nthough she had not heard what had gone before. \"He is a fellow in a\nthousand--in a thousand, indeed! I don't believe there is his match\nanywhere for goodness and real solid power combined.\"\n\n\"Molly,\" said Cynthia, after Mr. Osborne Hamley had gone, \"what sort\nof a man is this Roger Hamley? One can't tell how much to believe of\nhis brother's praises; for it is the one subject on which Osborne\nHamley becomes enthusiastic. I've noticed it once or twice before.\"\n\nWhile Molly hesitated on which point of the large round to begin her\ndescription, Mrs. Gibson struck in,--\n\n\"It just shows what a sweet disposition Osborne Hamley is of--that\nhe should praise his brother as he does. I daresay he is a senior\nwrangler, and much good may it do him! I don't deny that; but as for\nconversation, he's as heavy as heavy can be. A great awkward fellow\nto boot, who looks as if he did not know two and two made four, for\nall he is such a mathematical genius. You would hardly believe he\nwas Osborne Hamley's brother to see him! I should not think he has a\nprofile at all.\"\n\n\"What do you think of him, Molly?\" said the persevering Cynthia.\n\n\"I like him,\" said Molly. \"He has been very kind to me. I know he\nisn't handsome like Osborne.\"\n\nIt was rather difficult to say all this quietly, but Molly managed to\ndo it, quite aware that Cynthia would not rest till she had extracted\nsome kind of an opinion out of her.\n\n\"I suppose he will come home at Easter,\" said Cynthia, \"and then I\nshall see him for myself.\"\n\n\"It's a great pity that their being in mourning will prevent their\ngoing to the Easter charity ball,\" said Mrs. Gibson, plaintively.\n\"I shan't like to take you two girls, if you are not to have any\npartners. It will put me in such an awkward position. I wish we could\njoin on to the Towers party. That would secure you partners, for they\nalways bring a number of dancing men, who might dance with you after\nthey had done their duty by the ladies of the house. But really\neverything is so changed since dear Lady Cumnor has been an invalid\nthat, perhaps, they won't go at all.\"\n\nThis Easter ball was a great subject of conversation with Mrs.\nGibson. She sometimes spoke of it as her first appearance in society\nas a bride, though she had been visiting once or twice a week all\nwinter long. Then she shifted her ground, and said she felt so much\ninterest in it, because she would then have the responsibility of\nintroducing both her own and Mr. Gibson's daughter to public notice,\nthough the fact was that pretty nearly every one who was going to\nthis ball had seen the two young ladies--though not their ball\ndresses--before. But, aping the manners of the aristocracy as far\nas she knew them, she intended to \"bring out\" Molly and Cynthia on\nthis occasion, which she regarded in something of the light of a\npresentation at Court. \"They are not out yet,\" was her favourite\nexcuse when either of them was invited to any house to which she did\nnot wish them to go, or they were invited without her. She even made\na difficulty about their \"not being out\" when Miss Browning--that\nold friend of the Gibson family--came in one morning to ask the two\ngirls to come to a friendly tea and a round game afterwards; this\nmild piece of gaiety being designed as an attention to three of Mrs.\nGoodenough's grandchildren--two young ladies and their schoolboy\nbrother--who were staying on a visit to their grand-mamma.\n\n\"You are very kind, Miss Browning, but, you see, I hardly like to let\nthem go--they are not out, you know, till after the Easter ball.\"\n\n\"Till when we are invisible,\" said Cynthia, always ready with her\nmockery to exaggerate any pretension of her mother's. \"We are so high\nin rank that our sovereign must give us her sanction before we can\nplay a round game at your house.\"\n\nCynthia enjoyed the idea of her own full-grown size and stately gait,\nas contrasted with that of a meek, half-fledged girl in the nursery;\nbut Miss Browning was half puzzled and half affronted.\n\n\"I don't understand it at all. In my days girls went wherever it\npleased people to ask them, without this farce of bursting out in all\ntheir new fine clothes at some public place. I don't mean but what\nthe gentry took their daughters to York, or Matlock, or Bath, to\ngive them a taste of gay society when they were growing up; and the\nquality went up to London, and their young ladies were presented to\nQueen Charlotte, and went to a birthday ball, perhaps. But for us\nlittle Hollingford people--why, we knew every child amongst us from\nthe day of its birth; and many a girl of twelve or fourteen have I\nseen go out to a card-party, and sit quiet at her work, and know how\nto behave as well as any lady there. There was no talk of 'coming\nout' in those days for any one under the daughter of a Squire.\"\n\n\"After Easter, Molly and I shall know how to behave at a card-party,\nbut not before,\" said Cynthia, demurely.\n\n\"You're always fond of your quips and your cranks, my dear,\" said\nMiss Browning, \"and I wouldn't quite answer for your behaviour: you\nsometimes let your spirits carry you away. But I'm quite sure Molly\nwill be a little lady as she always is, and always was, and I have\nknown her from a babe.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson took up arms on behalf of her own daughter, or, rather,\nshe took up arms against Molly's praises.\n\n\"I don't think you would have called Molly a lady the other day,\nMiss Browning, if you had found her where I did: sitting up in a\ncherry-tree, six feet from the ground at least, I do assure you.\"\n\n\"Oh! but that wasn't pretty,\" said Miss Browning, shaking her head at\nMolly. \"I thought you'd left off those tom-boy ways.\"\n\n\"She wants the refinement which good society gives in several ways,\"\nsaid Mrs. Gibson, returning to the attack on poor Molly. \"She's very\napt to come upstairs two steps at a time.\"\n\n\"Only two, Molly!\" said Cynthia. \"Why, to-day I found I could manage\nfour of these broad shallow steps.\"\n\n\"My dear child, what are you saying?\"\n\n\"Only confessing that I, like Molly, want the refinements which good\nsociety gives; therefore, please do let us go to Miss Brownings'\nthis evening. I will pledge myself for Molly that she shan't sit in\na cherry-tree; and Molly shall see that I don't go upstairs in an\nunladylike way. I will go upstairs as meekly as if I were a come-out\nyoung lady, and had been to the Easter ball.\"\n\nSo it was agreed that they should go. If Mr. Osborne Hamley had been\nnamed as one of the probable visitors, there would have been none of\nthis difficulty about the affair.\n\nBut though he was not there, his brother Roger was. Molly saw him in\na minute when she entered the little drawing-room; but Cynthia did\nnot.\n\n\"And see, my dears,\" said Miss Phoebe Browning, turning them round\nto the side where Roger stood waiting for his turn of speaking\nto Molly, \"we've got a gentleman for you after all! Wasn't it\nfortunate?--just as sister said that you might find it dull--you,\nCynthia, she meant, because you know you come from France--then, just\nas if he had been sent from heaven, Mr. Roger came in to call; and I\nwon't say we laid violent hands on him, because he was too good for\nthat; but really we should have been near it, if he had not stayed of\nhis own accord.\"\n\nThe moment Roger had done his cordial greeting to Molly, he asked her\nto introduce him to Cynthia.\n\n\n[Illustration: ROGER IS INTRODUCED AND ENSLAVED.]\n\n\n\"I want to know her--your new sister,\" he added, with the kind smile\nMolly remembered so well since the very first day she had seen it\ndirected towards her, as she sate crying under the weeping ash.\nCynthia was standing a little behind Molly when Roger asked for this\nintroduction. She was generally dressed with careless grace. Molly,\nwho was delicate neatness itself, used sometimes to wonder how\nCynthia's tumbled gowns, tossed away so untidily, had the art of\nlooking so well, and falling in such graceful folds. For instance,\nthe pale lilac muslin gown she wore this evening had been worn many\ntimes before, and had looked unfit to wear again till Cynthia put\nit on. Then the limpness became softness, and the very creases took\nthe lines of beauty. Molly, in a daintily clean pink muslin, did not\nlook half so elegantly dressed as Cynthia. The grave eyes that the\nlatter raised when she had to be presented to Roger had a sort of\nchild-like innocence and wonder about them, which did not quite\nbelong to Cynthia's character. She put on her armour of magic that\nevening--involuntarily as she always did; but, on the other side, she\ncould not help trying her power on strangers. Molly had always felt\nthat she should have a right to a good long talk with Roger when she\nnext saw him; and that he would tell her, or she should gather from\nhim all the details she so longed to hear about the Squire--about\nthe Hall--about Osborne--about himself. He was just as cordial and\nfriendly as ever with her. If Cynthia had not been there, all would\nhave gone on as she had anticipated; but of all the victims to\nCynthia's charms he fell most prone and abject. Molly saw it all,\nas she was sitting next to Miss Phoebe at the tea-table, acting\nright-hand, and passing cake, cream, sugar, with such busy assiduity\nthat every one besides herself thought that her mind, as well as her\nhands, was fully occupied. She tried to talk to the two shy girls,\nas in virtue of her two years' seniority she thought herself bound\nto do; and the consequence was, she went upstairs with the twain\nclinging to her arms, and willing to swear an eternal friendship.\nNothing would satisfy them but that she must sit between them at\nvingt-un; and they were so desirous of her advice in the important\npoint of fixing the price of the counters that she could not ever\nhave joined in the animated conversation going on between Roger and\nCynthia. Or, rather, it would be more correct to say that Roger was\ntalking in a most animated manner to Cynthia, whose sweet eyes were\nfixed upon his face with a look of great interest in all he was\nsaying, while it was only now and then she made her low replies.\nMolly caught a few words occasionally in intervals of business.\n\n\"At my uncle's, we always give a silver threepence for three dozen.\nYou know what a silver threepence is, don't you, dear Miss Gibson?\"\n\n\"The three classes are published in the Senate House at nine o'clock\non the Friday morning, and you can't imagine--\"\n\n\"I think it will be thought rather shabby to play at anything less\nthan sixpence. That gentleman\" (this in a whisper) \"is at Cambridge,\nand you know they always play very high there, and sometimes ruin\nthemselves, don't they, dear Miss Gibson?\"\n\n\"Oh, on this occasion the Master of Arts who precedes the candidates\nfor honours when they go into the Senate House is called the Father\nof the College to which he belongs. I think I mentioned that before,\ndidn't I?\"\n\nSo Cynthia was hearing all about Cambridge, and the very examination\nabout which Molly had felt such keen interest, without having ever\nbeen able to have her questions answered by a competent person;\nand Roger, to whom she had always looked as the final and most\nsatisfactory answerer, was telling the whole of what she wanted to\nknow, and she could not listen. It took all her patience to make up\nlittle packets of counters, and settle, as the arbiter of the game,\nwhether it would be better for the round or the oblong counters to be\nreckoned as six. And when all was done, and every one sate in their\nplaces round the table, Roger and Cynthia had to be called twice\nbefore they came. They stood up, it is true, at the first sound of\ntheir names; but they did not move--Roger went on talking, Cynthia\nlistening till the second call; when they hurried to the table and\ntried to appear, all on a sudden, quite interested in the great\nquestions of the game--namely, the price of three dozen counters, and\nwhether, all things considered, it would be better to call the round\ncounters or the oblong half-a-dozen each. Miss Browning, drumming the\npack of cards on the table, and quite ready to begin dealing, decided\nthe matter by saying, \"Rounds are sixes, and three dozen counters\ncost sixpence. Pay up, if you please, and let us begin at once.\"\nCynthia sate between Roger and William Orford, the young schoolboy,\nwho bitterly resented on this occasion his sisters' habit of calling\nhim \"Willie,\" as he thought it was this boyish sobriquet which\nprevented Cynthia from attending as much to him as to Mr. Roger\nHamley; he also was charmed by the charmer, who found leisure to\ngive him one or two of her sweet smiles. On his return home to his\ngrand-mamma's, he gave out one or two very decided and rather original\nopinions, quite opposed--as was natural--to his sisters'. One was--\n\n\"That, after all, a senior wrangler was no great shakes. Any man\nmight be one if he liked, but there were a lot of fellows that he\nknew who would be very sorry to go in for anything so slow.\"\n\nMolly thought the game never would end. She had no particular turn\nfor gambling in her; and whatever her card might be, she regularly\nput on two counters, indifferent as to whether she won or lost.\nCynthia, on the contrary, staked high, and was at one time very rich,\nbut ended by being in debt to Molly something like six shillings. She\nhad forgotten her purse, she said, and was obliged to borrow from the\nmore provident Molly, who was aware that the round game of which Miss\nBrowning had spoken to her was likely to require money. If it was\nnot a very merry affair for all the individuals concerned, it was\na very noisy one on the whole. Molly thought it was going to last\ntill midnight; but punctually, as the clock struck nine, the little\nmaid-servant staggered in under the weight of a tray loaded with\nsandwiches, cakes, and jelly. This brought on a general move; and\nRoger, who appeared to have been on the watch for something of the\nkind, came and took a chair by Molly.\n\n\"I am so glad to see you again--it seems such a long time since\nChristmas,\" said he, dropping his voice, and not alluding more\nexactly to the day when she had left the Hall.\n\n\"It is a long time,\" she replied; \"we are close to Easter now. I\nhave so wanted to tell you how glad I was to hear about your honours\nat Cambridge. I once thought of sending you a message through\nyour brother, but then I thought it might be making too much fuss,\nbecause I know nothing of mathematics, or of the value of a senior\nwranglership; and you were sure to have so many congratulations from\npeople who did know.\"\n\n\"I missed yours though, Molly,\" said he, kindly. \"But I felt sure you\nwere glad for me.\"\n\n\"Glad and proud too,\" said she. \"I should so like to hear something\nmore about it. I heard you telling Cynthia--\"\n\n\"Yes. What a charming person she is! I should think you must be\nhappier than we expected long ago.\"\n\n\"But tell me something about the senior wranglership, please,\" said\nMolly.\n\n\"It's a long story, and I ought to be helping the Miss Brownings to\nhand sandwiches--besides, you wouldn't find it very interesting, it's\nso full of technical details.\"\n\n\"Cynthia looked very much interested,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Well! then I refer you to her, for I must go now. I can't for shame\ngo on sitting here, and letting those good ladies have all the\ntrouble. But I shall come and call on Mrs. Gibson soon. Are you\nwalking home to-night?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so,\" replied Molly, eagerly foreseeing what was to\ncome.\n\n\"Then I shall walk home with you. I left my horse at the 'George,'\nand that's half-way. I suppose old Betty will allow me to accompany\nyou and your sister? You used to describe her as something of a\ndragon.\"\n\n\"Betty has left us,\" said Molly, sadly. \"She's gone to live at a\nplace at Ashcombe.\"\n\nHe made a face of dismay, and then went off to his duties. The short\nconversation had been very pleasant, and his manner had had just the\nbrotherly kindness of old times; but it was not quite the manner he\nhad to Cynthia; and Molly half thought she would have preferred the\nlatter. He was now hovering about Cynthia, who had declined the offer\nof refreshments from Willie Orford. Roger was tempting her, and with\nplayful entreaties urging her to take some thing from him. Every word\nthey said could be heard by the whole room; yet every word was said,\non Roger's part at least, as if he could not have spoken it in that\npeculiar manner to any one else. At length, and rather more because\nshe was weary of being entreated, than because it was his wish,\nCynthia took a macaroon, and Roger seemed as happy as though she\nhad crowned him with flowers. The whole affair was as trifling and\ncommonplace as could be in itself; hardly worth noticing; and yet\nMolly did notice it, and felt uneasy; she could not tell why. As it\nturned out, it was a rainy night, and Mrs. Gibson sent a fly for the\ntwo girls instead of old Betty's substitute. Both Cynthia and Molly\nthought of the possibility of their taking the two Orford girls back\nto their grandmother's, and so saving them a wet walk; but Cynthia\ngot the start in speaking about it; and the thanks and the implied\npraise for thoughtfulness were hers.\n\nWhen they got home Mr. and Mrs. Gibson were sitting in the\ndrawing-room, quite ready to be amused by any details of the evening.\n\nCynthia began,--\n\n\"Oh! it wasn't very entertaining. One didn't expect that,\" and she\nyawned wearily.\n\n\"Who were there?\" asked Mr. Gibson. \"Quite a young party--wasn't it?\"\n\n\"They'd only asked Lizzie and Fanny Orford, and their brother; but\nMr. Roger Hamley had ridden over and called on Miss Brownings, and\nthey kept him to tea. No one else.\"\n\n\"Roger Hamley there!\" said Mr. Gibson. \"He's come home then. I must\nmake time to ride over and see him.\"\n\n\"You'd much better ask him here,\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"Suppose you\ninvite him and his brother to dine here on Friday, my dear. It would\nbe a very pretty attention, I think.\"\n\n\"My dear! these young Cambridge men have a very good taste in wine,\nand don't spare it. My cellar won't stand many of their attacks.\"\n\n\"I didn't think you were so inhospitable, Mr. Gibson.\"\n\n\"I'm not inhospitable, I'm sure. If you'll put 'bitter beer' in the\ncorner of your notes of invitation, just as the smart people put\n'quadrilles' as a sign of the entertainment offered, we'll have\nOsborne and Roger to dinner any day you like. And what did you think\nof my favourite, Cynthia? You hadn't seen him before, I think?\"\n\n\"Oh! he's nothing like so handsome as his brother; nor so polished;\nnor so easy to talk to. He entertained me for more than an hour with\na long account of some examination or other; but there's something\none likes about him.\"\n\n\"Well--and Molly,\" said Mrs. Gibson, who piqued herself on being an\nimpartial stepmother, and who always tried hard to make Molly talk as\nmuch as Cynthia,--\"what sort of an evening have you had?\"\n\n\"Very pleasant, thank you.\" Her heart a little belied her as she said\nthis. She had not cared for the round game; and she would have cared\nfor Roger's conversation. She had had what she was indifferent to,\nand not had what she would have liked.\n\n\"We've had our unexpected visitor, too,\" said Mr. Gibson. \"Just after\ndinner, who should come in but Mr. Preston. I fancy he's having\nmore of the management of the Hollingford property than formerly.\nSheepshanks is getting an old man. And if so, I suspect we shall\nsee a good deal of Preston. He's 'no blate,' as they used to say in\nScotland, and made himself quite at home to-night. If I'd asked him\nto stay, or, indeed, if I'd done anything but yawn, he'd have been\nhere now. But I defy any man to stay when I've a fit of yawning.\"\n\n\"Do you like Mr. Preston, papa?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"About as much as I do half the men I meet. He talks well, and has\nseen a good deal. I know very little of him, though, except that he's\nmy lord's steward, which is a guarantee for a good deal.\"\n\n\"Lady Harriet spoke pretty strongly against him that day I was with\nher at the Manor-house.\"\n\n\"Lady Harriet's always full of fancies: she likes persons to-day, and\ndislikes them to-morrow,\" said Mrs. Gibson, who was touched on her\nsore point whenever Molly quoted Lady Harriet, or said anything to\nimply ever so transitory an intimacy with her.\n\n\"You must know a good deal about Mr. Preston, my dear. I suppose you\nsaw a good deal of him at Ashcombe?\"\n\nMrs. Gibson coloured, and looked at Cynthia before she replied.\nCynthia's face was set into a determination not to speak, however\nmuch she might be referred to.\n\n\"Yes; we saw a good deal of him--at one time, I mean. He's\nchangeable, I think. But he always sent us game, and sometimes fruit.\nThere were some stories against him, but I never believed them.\"\n\n\"What kind of stories?\" said Mr. Gibson, quickly.\n\n\"Oh, vague stories, you know: scandal, I daresay. No one ever\nbelieved them. He could be so agreeable if he chose; and my lord, who\nis so very particular, would never have kept him as agent if they\nwere true; not that I ever knew what they were, for I consider all\nscandal as abominable gossip.\"\n\n\"I'm very glad I yawned in his face,\" said Mr. Gibson. \"I hope he'll\ntake the hint.\"\n\n\"If it was one of your giant-gapes, papa, I should call it more than\na hint,\" said Molly. \"And if you want a yawning chorus the next time\nhe comes, I'll join in; won't you, Cynthia?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" replied the latter, shortly, as she lighted her\nbed-candle. The two girls had usually some nightly conversation in\none or other of their bed-rooms; but to-night Cynthia said something\nor other about being terribly tired, and hastily shut her door.\n\nThe very next day, Roger came to pay his promised call. Molly was out\nin the garden with Williams, planning the arrangement of some new\nflower-beds, and deep in her employment of placing pegs upon the lawn\nto mark out the different situations, when, standing up to mark the\neffect, her eye was caught by the figure of a gentleman, sitting with\nhis back to the light, leaning forwards and talking, or listening,\neagerly. Molly knew the shape of the head perfectly, and hastily\nbegan to put off her brown-holland gardening apron, emptying the\npockets as she spoke to Williams.\n\n\"You can finish it now, I think,\" said she. \"You know about the\nbright-coloured flowers being against the privet-hedge, and where the\nnew rose-bed is to be?\"\n\n\"I can't justly say as I do,\" said he. \"Mebbe, you'll just go o'er it\nall once again, Miss Molly. I'm not so young as I oncst was, and my\nhead is not so clear now-a-days, and I'd be loath to make mistakes\nwhen you're so set upon your plans.\"\n\nMolly gave up her impulse in a moment. She saw that the old gardener\nwas really perplexed, yet that he was as anxious as he could be to do\nhis best. So she went over the ground again, pegging and explaining\ntill the wrinkled brow was smooth again, and he kept saying, \"I see,\nmiss. All right, Miss Molly, I'se gotten it in my head as clear as\npatchwork now.\"\n\nSo she could leave him, and go in. But just as she was close to the\ngarden door, Roger came out. It really was for once a case of virtue\nits own reward, for it was far pleasanter to her to have him in a\ntête-à-tête, however short, than in the restraint of Mrs. Gibson's\nand Cynthia's presence.\n\n\"I only just found out where you were, Molly. Mrs. Gibson said you\nhad gone out, but she didn't know where; and it was the greatest\nchance that I turned round and saw you.\"\n\n\"I saw you some time ago, but I couldn't leave Williams. I think he\nwas unusually slow to-day; and he seemed as if he couldn't understand\nmy plans for the new flower-beds.\"\n\n\"Is that the paper you've got in your hand? Let me look at it, will\nyou? Ah, I see! you've borrowed some of your ideas from our garden at\nhome, haven't you? This bed of scarlet geraniums, with the border of\nyoung oaks, pegged down! That was a fancy of my dear mother's.\"\n\nThey were both silent for a minute or two. Then Molly said,--\n\n\"How is the Squire? I've never seen him since.\"\n\n\"No, he told me how much he wanted to see you, but he couldn't make\nup his mind to come and call. I suppose it would never do now for you\nto come and stay at the Hall, would it? It would give my father so\nmuch pleasure: he looks upon you as a daughter, and I'm sure both\nOsborne and I shall always consider you are like a sister to us,\nafter all my mother's love for you, and your tender care of her at\nlast. But I suppose it wouldn't do.\"\n\n\"No! certainly not,\" said Molly, hastily.\n\n\"I fancy if you could come it would put us a little to rights. You\nknow, as I think I once told you, Osborne has behaved differently to\nwhat I should have done, though not wrongly,--only what I call an\nerror of judgment. But my father, I'm sure, has taken up some notion\nof--never mind; only the end of it is that he holds Osborne still in\ntacit disgrace, and is miserable himself all the time. Osborne, too,\nis sore and unhappy, and estranged from my father. It is just what\nmy mother would have put right very soon, and perhaps you could\nhave done it--unconsciously, I mean--for this wretched mystery that\nOsborne preserves about his affairs is at the root of it all. But\nthere's no use talking about it; I don't know why I began.\" Then,\nwith a wrench, changing the subject, while Molly still thought of\nwhat he had been telling her, he broke out,--\"I can't tell you how\nmuch I like Miss Kirkpatrick, Molly. It must be a great pleasure to\nyou having such a companion!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Molly, half smiling. \"I'm very fond of her; and I think I\nlike her better every day I know her. But how quickly you have found\nout her virtues!\"\n\n\"I didn't say 'virtues,' did I?\" asked he, reddening, but putting\nthe question in all good faith. \"Yet I don't think one could be\ndeceived in that face. And Mrs. Gibson appears to be a very friendly\nperson,--she has asked Osborne and me to dine here on Friday.\"\n\n\"Bitter beer\" came into Molly's mind; but what she said was, \"And are\nyou coming?\"\n\n\"Certainly, I am, unless my father wants me; and I've given Mrs.\nGibson a conditional promise for Osborne, too. So I shall see you all\nvery soon again. But I must go now. I have to keep an appointment\nseven miles from here in half-an-hour's time. Good luck to your\nflower-garden, Molly.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nTHE OLD SQUIRE'S TROUBLES.\n\n\nAffairs were going on worse at the Hall than Roger had liked to tell.\nMoreover, very much of the discomfort there arose from \"mere manner,\"\nas people express it, which is always indescribable and indefinable.\nQuiet and passive as Mrs. Hamley had always been in appearance,\nshe was the ruling spirit of the house as long as she lived. The\ndirections to the servants, down to the most minute particulars,\ncame from her sitting-room, or from the sofa on which she lay. Her\nchildren always knew where to find her; and to find her, was to find\nlove and sympathy. Her husband, who was often restless and angry from\none cause or another, always came to her to be smoothed down and\nput right. He was conscious of her pleasant influence over him, and\nbecame at peace with himself when in her presence; just as a child\nis at ease when with some one who is both firm and gentle. But the\nkeystone of the family arch was gone, and the stones of which it\nwas composed began to fall apart. It is always sad when a sorrow of\nthis kind seems to injure the character of the mourning survivors.\nYet, perhaps, this injury may be only temporary or superficial; the\njudgments so constantly passed upon the way in which people bear the\nloss of those whom they have deeply loved, appear to be even more\ncruel, and wrongly meted out, than human judgments generally are. To\ncareless observers, for instance, it would seem as though the Squire\nwas rendered more capricious and exacting, more passionate and\nauthoritative, by his wife's death. The truth was, that it occurred\nat a time when many things came to harass him, and some to bitterly\ndisappoint him; and _she_ was no longer there to whom he used to\ncarry his sore heart for the gentle balm of her sweet words. So the\nsore heart ached and smarted intensely; and often, when he saw how\nhis violent conduct affected others, he could have cried out for\ntheir pity, instead of their anger and resentment: \"Have mercy upon\nme, for I am very miserable.\" How often have such dumb thoughts gone\nup from the hearts of those who have taken hold of their sorrow\nby the wrong end, as prayers against sin! And when the Squire saw\nthat his servants were learning to dread him, and his first-born to\navoid him, he did not blame them. He knew he was becoming a domestic\ntyrant; it seemed as if all circumstances conspired against him, and\nas if he was too weak to struggle with them; else, why did everything\nin doors and out of doors go so wrong just now, when all he could\nhave done, had things been prosperous, was to have submitted, in very\nimperfect patience, to the loss of his wife? But just when he needed\nready money to pacify Osborne's creditors, the harvest had turned out\nremarkably plentiful, and the price of corn had sunk down to a level\nit had not touched for years. The Squire had insured his life at the\ntime of his marriage for a pretty large sum. It was to be a provision\nfor his wife, if she survived him, and for their younger children.\nRoger was the only representative of these interests now; but the\nSquire was unwilling to lose the insurance by ceasing to pay the\nannual sum. He would not, if he could, have sold any part of the\nestate which he inherited from his father; and, besides, it was\nstrictly entailed. He had sometimes thought how wise a step it\nwould have been could he have sold a portion of it, and with the\npurchase-money have drained and reclaimed the remainder; and at\nlength, learning from some neighbour that Government would make\ncertain advances for drainage, &c., at a very low rate of interest,\non condition that the work was done, and the money repaid, within a\ngiven time, his wife had urged him to take advantage of the proffered\nloan. But now that she was no longer there to encourage him, and take\nan interest in the progress of the work, he grew indifferent to it\nhimself, and cared no more to go out on his stout roan cob, and sit\nsquare on his seat, watching the labourers on the marshy land all\novergrown with rushes; speaking to them from time to time in their\nown strong nervous country dialect: but the interest to Government\nhad to be paid all the same, whether the men worked well or ill.\nThen the roof of the Hall let in the melted snow-water this winter;\nand, on examination, it turned out that a new roof was absolutely\nrequired. The men who had come about the advances made to Osborne by\nthe London money-lender, had spoken disparagingly of the timber on\nthe estate--\"Very fine trees--sound, perhaps, too, fifty years ago,\nbut gone to rot now; had wanted lopping and clearing. Was there no\nwood-ranger or forester? They were nothing like the value young Mr.\nHamley had represented them to be.\" The remarks had come round to\nthe squire's ears. He loved the trees he had played under as a boy\nas if they were living creatures; that was on the romantic side of\nhis nature. Merely looking at them as representing so many pounds\nsterling, he had esteemed them highly, and had had, until now,\nno opinion of another by which to correct his own judgment. So\nthese words of the valuers cut him sharp, although he affected to\ndisbelieve them, and tried to persuade himself that he did so. But,\nafter all, these cares and disappointments did not touch the root of\nhis deep resentment against Osborne. There is nothing like wounded\naffection for giving poignancy to anger. And the Squire believed that\nOsborne and his advisers had been making calculations, based upon his\nown death. He hated the idea so much--it made him so miserable--that\nhe would not face it, and define it, and meet it with full inquiry\nand investigation. He chose rather to cherish the morbid fancy that\nhe was useless in this world--born under an unlucky star--that all\nthings went badly under his management. But he did not become humble\nin consequence. He put his misfortunes down to the score of Fate--not\nto his own; and he imagined that Osborne saw his failures, and that\nhis first-born grudged him his natural term of life. All these\nfancies would have been set to rights could he have talked them over\nwith his wife; or even had he been accustomed to mingle much in\nthe society of those whom he esteemed his equals; but, as has been\nstated, he was inferior in education to those who should have been\nhis mates; and perhaps the jealousy and _mauvaise honte_ that this\ninferiority had called out long ago, extended itself in some measure\nto the feelings he entertained towards his sons--less to Roger\nthan to Osborne, though the former was turning out by far the most\ndistinguished man. But Roger was practical; interested in all\nout-of-doors things, and he enjoyed the details, homely enough, which\nhis father sometimes gave him of the every-day occurrences which\nthe latter had noticed in the woods and the fields. Osborne, on the\ncontrary, was what is commonly called \"fine;\" delicate almost to\neffeminacy in dress and in manner; careful in small observances. All\nthis his father had been rather proud of in the days when he looked\nforward to a brilliant career at Cambridge for his son; he had at\nthat time regarded Osborne's fastidiousness and elegance as another\nstepping-stone to the high and prosperous marriage which was to\nrestore the ancient fortunes of the Hamley family. But now that\nOsborne had barely obtained his degree; that all the boastings of his\nfather had proved vain; that the fastidiousness had led to unexpected\nexpenses (to attribute the most innocent cause to Osborne's debts),\nthe poor young man's ways and manners became a subject of irritation\nto his father. Osborne was still occupied with his books and his\nwritings when he was at home; and this mode of passing the greater\npart of the day gave him but few subjects in common with his father\nwhen they did meet at meal times, or in the evenings. Perhaps if\nOsborne had been able to have more out-of-door amusements it would\nhave been better; but he was short-sighted, and cared little for the\ncarefully observant pursuits of his brother; he knew but few young\nmen of his own standing in the county; his hunting even, of which he\nwas passionately fond, had been curtailed this season, as his father\nhad disposed of one of the two hunters he had been hitherto allowed.\nThe whole stable establishment had been reduced; perhaps because it\nwas the economy which told most on the enjoyment of both the Squire\nand Osborne, and which, therefore, the former took a savage pleasure\nin enforcing. The old carriage--a heavy family coach bought in the\ndays of comparative prosperity--was no longer needed after madam's\ndeath, and fell to pieces in the cobwebbed seclusion of the\ncoach-house. The best of the two carriage-horses was taken for a gig,\nwhich the Squire now set up; saying many a time to all who might\ncare to listen to him that it was the first time for generations\nthat the Hamleys of Hamley had not been able to keep their own coach.\nThe other carriage-horse was turned out to grass; being too old for\nregular work. Conqueror used to come whinnying up to the park palings\nwhenever he saw the Squire, who had always a piece of bread, or some\nsugar, or an apple for the old favourite; and would make many a\ncomplaining speech to the dumb animal, telling him of the change of\ntimes since both were in their prime. It had never been the Squire's\ncustom to encourage his boys to invite their friends to the Hall.\nPerhaps this, too, was owing to his _mauvaise honte_, and also to an\nexaggerated consciousness of the deficiencies of his establishment as\ncompared with what he imagined these lads were accustomed to at home.\nHe explained this once or twice to Osborne and Roger when they were\nat Rugby.\n\n\"You see, all you public schoolboys have a kind of freemasonry of\nyour own, and outsiders are looked on by you much as I look on\nrabbits and all that isn't game. Ay, you may laugh, but it is so; and\nyour friends will throw their eyes askance at me, and never think on\nmy pedigree, which would beat theirs all to shivers, I'll be bound.\nNo; I'll have no one here at the Hall who will look down on a Hamley\nof Hamley, even if he only knows how to make a cross instead of write\nhis name.\"\n\nThen, of course, they must not visit at houses to whose sons the\nSquire could not or would not return a like hospitality. On all these\npoints Mrs. Hamley had used her utmost influence without avail;\nhis prejudices were immoveable. As regarded his position as head\nof the oldest family in three counties, his pride was invincible;\nas regarded himself personally--ill at ease in the society of\nhis equals, deficient in manners, and in education--his morbid\nsensitiveness was too sore and too self-conscious to be called\nhumility.\n\nTake one instance from among many similar scenes of the state of\nfeeling between him and his eldest son, which, if it could not be\ncalled active discord, showed at least passive estrangement.\n\nIt took place on an evening in the March succeeding Mrs. Hamley's\ndeath. Roger was at Cambridge. Osborne had also been from home, and\nhe had not volunteered any information as to his absence. The Squire\nbelieved that Osborne had been either at Cambridge with his brother,\nor in London; he would have liked to hear where his son had been,\nwhat he had been doing, and whom he had seen, purely as pieces of\nnews, and as some diversion from the domestic worries and cares which\nwere pressing him hard; but he was too proud to ask any questions,\nand Osborne had not given him any details of his journey. This\nsilence had aggravated the Squire's internal dissatisfaction, and\nhe came home to dinner weary and sore-hearted a day or two after\nOsborne's return. It was just six o'clock, and he went hastily into\nhis own little business-room on the ground-floor, and, after washing\nhis hands, came into the drawing-room feeling as if he were very\nlate, but the room was empty. He glanced at the clock over the\nmantel-piece, as he tried to warm his hands at the fire. The fire had\nbeen neglected, and had gone out during the day; it was now piled up\nwith half-dried wood, which sputtered and smoked instead of doing its\nduty in blazing and warming the room, through which the keen wind was\ncutting its way in all directions. The clock had stopped, no one had\nremembered to wind it up, but by the squire's watch it was already\npast dinner-time. The old butler put his head into the room, but,\nseeing the squire alone, he was about to draw it back, and wait\nfor Mr. Osborne, before announcing dinner. He had hoped to do this\nunperceived, but the squire caught him in the act.\n\n\"Why isn't dinner ready?\" he called out sharply. \"It's ten minutes\npast six. And, pray, why are you using this wood? It's impossible to\nget oneself warm by such a fire as this.\"\n\n\"I believe, sir, that Thomas--\"\n\n\"Don't talk to me of Thomas. Send dinner in directly.\"\n\nAbout five minutes elapsed, spent by the hungry Squire in all sorts\nof impatient ways--attacking Thomas, who came in to look after\nthe fire; knocking the logs about, scattering out sparks, but\nconsiderably lessening the chances of warmth; touching up the\ncandles, which appeared to him to give a light unusually insufficient\nfor the large cold room. While he was doing this, Osborne came in\ndressed in full evening dress. He always moved slowly; and this, to\nbegin with, irritated the Squire. Then an uncomfortable consciousness\nof a black coat, drab trousers, checked cotton cravat, and splashed\nboots, forced itself upon him as he saw Osborne's point-device\ncostume. He chose to consider it affectation and finery in Osborne,\nand was on the point of bursting out with some remark, when the\nbutler, who had watched Osborne downstairs before making the\nannouncement, came in to say dinner was ready.\n\n\"It surely isn't six o'clock?\" said Osborne, pulling out his dainty\nlittle watch. He was scarcely more unaware than it of the storm that\nwas brewing.\n\n\"Six o'clock! It's more than a quarter past,\" growled out his father.\n\n\"I fancy your watch must be wrong, sir. I set mine by the Horse\nGuards only two days ago.\"\n\nNow, impugning that old steady, turnip-shaped watch of the Squire's\nwas one of the insults which, as it could not reasonably be resented,\nwas not to be forgiven. That watch had been given him by his\nfather when watches were watches long ago. It had given the law to\nhouse-clocks, stable-clocks, kitchen-clocks--nay, even to Hamley\nChurch clock in its day; and was it now, in its respectable old age,\nto be looked down upon by a little whipper-snapper of a French watch\nwhich could go into a man's waistcoat pocket, instead of having to\nbe extricated, with due effort, like a respectable watch of size and\nposition, from a fob in the waistband? No! not if the whipper-snapper\nwere backed by all the Horse Guards that ever were, with the Life\nGuards to boot. Poor Osborne might have known better than to cast\nthis slur on his father's flesh and blood; for so dear did he hold\nhis watch!\n\n\"My watch is like myself,\" said the squire, 'girning,' as the Scotch\nsay--\"plain, but steady-going. At any rate, it gives the law in my\nhouse. The King may go by the Horse Guards if he likes.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir,\" said Osborne, really anxious to keep the\npeace, \"I went by my watch, which is certainly right by London time;\nand I'd no idea you were waiting for me; otherwise I could have\ndressed much quicker.\"\n\n\"I should think so,\" said the Squire, looking sarcastically at his\nson's attire. \"When I was a young man I should have been ashamed to\nhave spent as much time at my looking-glass as if I'd been a girl.\nI could make myself as smart as any one when I was going to a dance,\nor to a party where I was likely to meet pretty girls; but I should\nhave laughed myself to scorn if I'd stood fiddle-faddling at a glass,\nsmirking at my own likeness, all for my own pleasure.\"\n\nOsborne reddened, and was on the point of letting fly some caustic\nremark on his father's dress at the present moment; but he contented\nhimself with saying, in a low voice,--\n\n\"My mother always expected us all to dress for dinner. I got into the\nhabit of doing it to please her, and I keep it up now.\" Indeed, he\nhad a certain kind of feeling of loyalty to her memory in keeping\nup all the little domestic habits and customs she had instituted or\npreferred. But the contrast which the Squire thought was implied by\nOsborne's remark, put him beside himself.\n\n\"And I, too, try to attend to her wishes. I do; and in more important\nthings. I did when she was alive; and I do so now.\"\n\n\"I never said you did not,\" said Osborne, astonished at his father's\npassionate words and manner.\n\n\"Yes, you did, sir. You meant it. I could see by your looks. I saw\nyou look at my morning coat. At any rate, I never neglected any wish\nof hers in her lifetime. If she'd wished me to go to school again\nand learn my A, B, C, I would. By ---- I would; and I wouldn't have\ngone playing me, and lounging away my time, for fear of vexing and\ndisappointing her. Yet some folks older than school-boys--\"\n\nThe squire choked here; but though the words would not come his\npassion did not diminish. \"I'll not have you casting up your mother's\nwishes to me, sir. You, who went near to break her heart at last!\"\n\nOsborne was strongly tempted to get up and leave the room. Perhaps it\nwould have been better if he had; it might then have brought about\nan explanation, and a reconciliation between father and son. But he\nthought he did well in sitting still and appearing to take no notice.\nThis indifference to what he was saying appeared to annoy the Squire\nstill more, and he kept on grumbling and talking to himself till\nOsborne, unable to bear it any longer, said, very quietly, but very\nbitterly--\n\n\"I am only a cause of irritation to you, and home is no longer home\nto me, but a place in which I am to be controlled in trifles, and\nscolded about trifles as if I were a child. Put me in a way of making\na living for myself--that much your oldest son has a right to ask of\nyou--I will then leave this house, and you shall be no longer vexed\nby my dress, or my want of punctuality.\"\n\n\"You make your request pretty much as another son did long ago: 'Give\nme the portion that falleth to me.' But I don't think what he did\nwith his money is much encouragement for me to--.\" Then the thought\nof how little he could give his son his \"portion,\" or any part of it,\nstopped the Squire.\n\nOsborne took up the speech.\n\n\"I'm as ready as any man to earn my living; only the preparation for\nany profession will cost money, and money I haven't got.\"\n\n\"No more have I,\" said the Squire, shortly.\n\n\"What is to be done then?\" said Osborne, only half believing his\nfather's words.\n\n\"Why, you must learn to stop at home, and not take expensive\njourneys; and you must reduce your tailor's bill. I don't ask you\nto help me in the management of the land--you're far too fine a\ngentleman for that; but if you can't earn money, at least you needn't\nspend it.\"\n\n\"I've told you I'm willing enough to earn money,\" cried Osborne,\npassionately at last. \"But how am I to do it? You really are very\nunreasonable, sir.\"\n\n\"Am I?\" said the Squire--cooling in manner, though not in temper, as\nOsborne grew warm. \"But I don't set up for being reasonable; men who\nhave to pay away money that they haven't got for their extravagant\nsons aren't likely to be reasonable. There's two things you've gone\nand done which put me beside myself, when I think of them; you've\nturned out next door to a dunce at college, when your poor mother\nthought so much of you--and when you might have pleased and gratified\nher so if you chose--and, well! I won't say what the other thing is.\"\n\n\"Tell me, sir,\" said Osborne, almost breathless with the idea that\nhis father had discovered his secret marriage; but the father was\nthinking of the money-lenders, who were calculating how soon Osborne\nwould come into the estate.\n\n\"No!\" said the Squire. \"I know what I know; and I'm not going to\ntell you how I know it. Only, I'll just say this--your friends no\nmore know a piece of good timber when they see it than you or I know\nhow you could earn five pounds if it was to keep you from starving.\nNow, there's Roger--we none of us made an ado about him; but he'll\nhave his Fellowship now, I'll warrant him, and be a bishop, or a\nchancellor, or something, before we've found out he's clever--we've\nbeen so much taken up thinking about you. I don't know what's come\nover me to speak of 'we'--'we' in this way,\" said he, suddenly\ndropping his voice,--a change of tone as sad as sad could be. \"I\nought to say 'I;' it will be 'I' for evermore in this world.\"\n\nHe got up and left the room in quick haste, knocking over his chair,\nand not stopping to pick it up. Osborne, who was sitting and shading\nhis eyes with his hand, as he had been doing for some time, looked up\nat the noise, and then rose as quickly and hurried after his father,\nonly in time to hear the study-door locked on the inside the moment\nhe reached it.\n\nOsborne returned into the dining-room chagrined and sorrowful. But he\nwas always sensitive to any omission of the usual observances, which\nmight excite remark; and even with his heavy heart he was careful to\npick up the fallen chair, and restore it to its place near the bottom\nof the table; and afterwards so to disturb the dishes as to make it\nappear that they had been touched, before ringing for Robinson. When\nthe latter came in, followed by Thomas, Osborne thought it necessary\nto say to him that his father was not well, and had gone into the\nstudy; and that he himself wanted no dessert, but would have a cup\nof coffee in the drawing-room. The old butler sent Thomas out of the\nroom, and came up confidentially to Osborne.\n\n\"I thought master wasn't justly himself, Mr. Osborne, before dinner.\nAnd, therefore, I made excuses for him--I did. He spoke to Thomas\nabout the fire, sir, which is a thing I could in nowise put up\nwith, unless by reason of sickness, which I am always ready to make\nallowances for.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't my father speak to Thomas?\" said Osborne. \"But,\nperhaps, he spoke angrily, I daresay; for I'm sure he's not well.\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Osborne, it wasn't that. I myself am given to anger; and I'm\nblessed with as good health as any man in my years. Besides, anger's\na good thing for Thomas. He needs a deal of it. But it should come\nfrom the right quarter--and that is me, myself, Mr. Osborne. I know\nmy place, and I know my rights and duties as well as any butler that\nlives. And it's my duty to scold Thomas, and not master's. Master\nought to have said, 'Robinson! you must speak to Thomas about letting\nout the fire,' and I'd ha' given it him well,--as I shall do now,\nfor that matter. But as I said before, I make excuses for master,\nas being in mental distress and bodily ill-health; so I've brought\nmyself round not to give warning, as I should ha' done, for certain,\nunder happier circumstances.\"\n\n\"Really, Robinson, I think it's all great nonsense,\" said Osborne,\nweary of the long story the butler had told him, and to which he\nhad not half attended. \"What in the world does it signify whether\nmy father speaks to you or to Thomas? Bring me coffee in the\ndrawing-room, and don't trouble your head any more about scolding\nThomas.\"\n\nRobinson went away offended at his grievance being called nonsense.\nHe kept muttering to himself in the intervals of scolding Thomas, and\nsaying,--\"Things is a deal changed since poor missis went. I don't\nwonder master feels it, for I'm sure I do. She was a lady who had\nalways a becoming respect for a butler's position, and could have\nunderstood how he might be hurt in his mind. She'd never ha' called\nhis delicacies of feelings nonsense--not she; no more would Mr.\nRoger. He's a merry young gentleman, and over fond of bringing dirty,\nslimy creatures into the house; but he's always a kind word for a man\nwho is hurt in his mind. He'd cheer up the Squire, and keep him from\ngetting so cross and wilful. I wish Mr. Roger was here, I do.\"\n\nThe poor Squire, shut up with his grief, and his ill-temper as well,\nin the dingy, dreary study where he daily spent more and more of\nhis indoors life, turned over his cares and troubles till he was as\nbewildered with the process as a squirrel must be in going round in\na cage. He had out day-books and ledgers, and was calculating up\nback-rents; and every time the sum-totals came to different amounts.\nHe could have cried like a child over his sums; he was worn out and\nweary, angry and disappointed. He closed his books at last with a\nbang.\n\n\"I'm getting old,\" he said, \"and my head's less clear than it used to\nbe. I think sorrow for her has dazed me. I never was much to boast\non; but she thought a deal of me--bless her! She'd never let me call\nmyself stupid; but, for all that, I am stupid. Osborne ought to help\nme. He's had money enough spent on his learning; but, instead, he\ncomes down dressed like a popinjay, and never troubles his head to\nthink how I'm to pay his debts. I wish I'd told him to earn his\nliving as a dancing-master,\" said the squire, with a sad smile at his\nown wit. \"He's dressed for all the world like one. And how he's spent\nthe money no one knows! Perhaps Roger will turn up some day with a\nheap of creditors at his heels. No, he won't--not Roger; he may be\nslow, but he's steady, is old Roger. I wish he was here. He's not the\neldest son, but he'd take an interest in the estate; and he'd do up\nthese weary accounts for me. I wish Roger was here!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nOSBORNE HAMLEY REVIEWS HIS POSITION.\n\n\nOsborne had his solitary cup of coffee in the drawing-room. He was\nvery unhappy too, after his fashion. He stood on the hearth-rug\npondering over his situation. He was not exactly aware how hardly\nhis father was pressed for ready-money; the Squire had never spoken\nto him on the subject without being angry; and many of his loose\ncontradictory statements--all of which, however contradictory they\nmight appear, had their basis in truth--were set down by his son\nto the exaggeration of passion. But it was uncomfortable enough to\na young man of Osborne's age to feel himself continually hampered\nfor want of a five-pound note. The principal supplies for the\nliberal--almost luxurious table at the Hall, came off the estate; so\nthat there was no appearance of poverty as far as the household went;\nand as long as Osborne was content at home, he had everything he\ncould wish for; but he had a wife elsewhere--he wanted to see her\ncontinually--and that necessitated journeys. She, poor thing! had to\nbe supported--where was the money for the journeys and for Aimée's\nmodest wants to come from? That was the puzzle in Osborne's mind\njust now. While he had been at college his allowance--heir of the\nHamleys--had been three hundred, while Roger had to be content with a\nhundred less. The payment of these annual sums had given the Squire\na good deal of trouble; but he thought of it as a merely temporary\ninconvenience; perhaps unreasonably thought so. Osborne was to\ndo great things; take high honours, get a fellowship, marry a\nlong-descended heiress, live in some of the many uninhabited rooms at\nthe Hall, and help the squire in the management of the estate that\nwould some time be his. Roger was to be a clergyman; steady, slow\nRoger was just fitted for that, and when he declined entering the\nChurch, preferring a life of more activity and adventure, Roger was\nto be--anything; he was useful and practical, and fit for all the\nemployments from which Osborne was shut out by his fastidiousness,\nand his (pseudo) genius; so it was well he was an eldest son, for he\nwould never have done to struggle through the world; and as for his\nsettling down to a profession, it would be like cutting blocks with\na razor! And now here was Osborne, living at home, but longing to be\nelsewhere; his allowance stopped in reality; indeed, the punctual\npayment of it during the last year or two had been owing to his\nmother's exertions; but nothing had been said about its present\ncessation by either father or son; money matters were too sore a\nsubject between them. Every now and then the Squire threw him a\nten-pound note or so; but the sort of suppressed growl with which it\nwas given, and the entire uncertainty as to when he might receive\nsuch gifts, rendered any calculation based upon their receipt\nexceedingly vague and uncertain.\n\n\"What in the world can I do to secure an income?\" thought Osborne, as\nhe stood on the hearth-rug, his back to a blazing fire, his cup of\ncoffee sent up in the rare old china that had belonged to the Hall\nfor generations; his dress finished, as dress of Osborne's could\nhardly fail to be. One could hardly have thought that this elegant\nyoung man, standing there in the midst of comfort that verged on\nluxury, should have been turning over that one great problem in his\nmind; but so it was. \"What can I do to be sure of a present income?\nThings cannot go on as they are. I should need support for two or\nthree years, even if I entered myself at the Temple, or Lincoln's\nInn. It would be impossible to live on my pay in the army; besides,\nI should hate that profession. In fact, there are evils attending all\nprofessions--I couldn't bring myself to become a member of any I've\never heard of. Perhaps I'm more fitted to take 'orders' than anything\nelse; but to be compelled to write weekly sermons whether one had\nanything to say or not, and, probably, doomed only to associate with\npeople below one in refinement and education! Yet poor Aimée must\nhave money. I can't bear to compare our dinners here, overloaded with\njoints and game and sweets, as Morgan will persist in sending them\nup, with Aimée's two little mutton-chops. Yet what would my father\nsay if he knew I'd married a Frenchwoman? In his present mood he'd\ndisinherit me, if that is possible; and he'd speak about her in a way\nI couldn't stand. A Roman Catholic, too! Well, I don't repent it. I'd\ndo it again. Only if my mother had been in good health--if she could\nhave heard my story, and known Aimée! As it is I must keep it secret;\nbut where to get money? Where to get money?\"\n\nThen he bethought him of his poems--would they sell, and bring him\nin money? In spite of Milton, he thought they might; and he went to\nfetch his MSS. out of his room. He sate down near the fire, trying to\nstudy them with a critical eye, to represent public opinion as far as\nhe could. He had changed his style since the Mrs. Hemans' days. He\nwas essentially imitative in his poetic faculty; and of late he had\nfollowed the lead of a popular writer of sonnets. He turned his poems\nover: they were almost equivalent to an autobiographical passage in\nhis life. Arranging them in their order, they came as follows:--\n\n\"To Aimée, Walking with a Little Child.\"\n\n\"To Aimée, Singing at her Work.\"\n\n\"To Aimée, Turning away from me while I told my Love.\"\n\n\"Aimée's Confession.\"\n\n\"Aimée in Despair.\"\n\n\"The Foreign Land in which my Aimée dwells.\"\n\n\"The Wedding Ring.\"\n\n\"The Wife.\"\n\nWhen he came to this last sonnet he put down his bundle of papers\nand began to think. \"The wife.\" Yes, and a French wife; and a\nRoman Catholic wife--and a wife who might be said to have been in\nservice! And his father's hatred of the French, both collectively\nand individually--collectively, as tumultuous brutal ruffians,\nwho murdered their king, and committed all kinds of bloody\natrocities--individually, as represented by \"Boney,\" and the various\ncaricatures of \"Johnny Crapaud\" that had been in full circulation\nabout five-and-twenty years before this time, when the Squire had\nbeen young and capable of receiving impressions. As for the form of\nreligion in which Mrs. Osborne Hamley had been brought up, it is\nenough to say that Catholic emancipation had begun to be talked about\nby some politicians, and that the sullen roar of the majority of\nEnglishmen, at the bare idea of it, was surging in the distance with\nominous threatenings; the very mention of such a measure before the\nSquire was, as Osborne well knew, like shaking a red flag before a\nbull.\n\nAnd then he considered that if Aimée had had the unspeakable, the\nincomparable blessing of being born of English parents, in the very\nheart of England--Warwickshire, for instance--and had never heard\nof priests, or mass, or confession, or the Pope, or Guy Fawkes, but\nhad been born, baptized, and bred in the Church of England, without\nhaving ever seen the outside of a dissenting meeting-house, or a\npapist chapel--even with all these advantages, her having been a\n(what was the equivalent for \"bonne\" in English? 'nursery-governess'\nwas a term hardly invented) nursery-maid, with wages paid down once a\nquarter, liable to be dismissed at a month's warning, and having her\ntea and sugar doled out to her, would be a shock to his father's old\nancestral pride that he would hardly ever get over.\n\n\"If he saw her!\" thought Osborne. \"If he could but see her!\" But if\nthe Squire were to see Aimée, he would also hear her speak her pretty\nbroken English--precious to her husband, as it was in it that she\nhad confessed brokenly with her English tongue, that she loved him\nsoundly with her French heart--and Squire Hamley piqued himself on\nbeing a good hater of the French. \"She would make such a loving,\nsweet, docile little daughter to my father--she would go as near as\nany one could towards filling up the blank void in this house, if he\nwould but have her; but he won't; he never would; and he sha'n't have\nthe opportunity of scouting her. Yet if I called her 'Lucy' in these\nsonnets; and if they made a great effect--were praised in _Blackwood_\nand the _Quarterly_--and all the world was agog to find out the\nauthor; and I told him my secret--I could if I were successful--I\nthink then he would ask who Lucy was, and I could tell him all then.\nIf--how I hate 'ifs.' 'If me no ifs.' My life has been based on\n'whens;' and first they have turned to 'ifs,' and then they have\nvanished away. It was 'when Osborne gets honours,' and then 'if\nOsborne,' and then a failure altogether. I said to Aimée, 'when my\nmother sees you,' and now it is 'if my father saw her,' with a very\nfaint prospect of its ever coming to pass.\" So he let the evening\nhours flow on and disappear in reveries like these; winding up with\na sudden determination to try the fate of his poems with a publisher,\nwith the direct expectation of getting money for them, and an\nulterior fancy that, if successful, they might work wonders with his\nfather.\n\nWhen Roger came home Osborne did not let a day pass before telling\nhis brother of his plans. He never did conceal anything long from\nRoger; the feminine part of his character made him always desirous of\na confidant, and as sweet sympathy as he could extract. But Roger's\nopinion had no effect on Osborne's actions; and Roger knew this full\nwell. So when Osborne began with--\"I want your advice on a plan\nI have got in my head,\" Roger replied: \"Some one told me that the\nDuke of Wellington's maxim was never to give advice unless he could\nenforce its being carried into effect; now I can't do that; and you\nknow, old boy, you don't follow out my advice when you've got it.\"\n\n\"Not always, I know. Not when it doesn't agree with my own opinion.\nYou're thinking about this concealment of my marriage; but you're\nnot up in all the circumstances. You know how fully I meant to have\ndone it, if there hadn't been that row about my debts; and then my\nmother's illness and death. And now you've no conception how my\nfather is changed--how irritable he has become! Wait till you've been\nat home a week! Robinson, Morgan--it's the same with them all; but\nworst of all with me.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow!\" said Roger; \"I thought he looked terribly changed:\nshrunken, and his ruddiness of complexion altered.\"\n\n\"Why, he hardly takes half the exercise he used to do, so it's no\nwonder. He has turned away all the men off the new works, which used\nto be such an interest to him; and because the roan cob stumbled with\nhim one day, and nearly threw him, he won't ride it; and yet he won't\nsell it and buy another, which would be the sensible plan; so there\nare two old horses eating their heads off, while he is constantly\ntalking about money and expense. And that brings me to what I was\ngoing to say. I'm desperately hard up for money, and so I've been\ncollecting my poems--weeding them well, you know--going over them\nquite critically, in fact; and I want to know if you think Deighton\nwould publish them. You've a name in Cambridge, you know; and I\ndaresay he would look at them if you offered them to him.\"\n\n\"I can but try,\" said Roger; \"but I'm afraid you won't get much by\nthem.\"\n\n\"I don't expect much. I'm a new man, and must make my name. I should\nbe content with a hundred. If I'd a hundred pounds I'd set myself to\ndo something. I might keep myself and Aimée by my writings while I\nstudied for the bar; or, if the worst came to the worst, a hundred\npounds would take us to Australia.\"\n\n\"Australia! Why, Osborne, what could you do there? And leave my\nfather! I hope you'll never get your hundred pounds, if that's the\nuse you're to make of it! Why, you'd break the Squire's heart.\"\n\n\"It might have done once,\" said Osborne, gloomily, \"but it wouldn't\nnow. He looks at me askance, and shies away from conversation with\nme. Let me alone for noticing and feeling this kind of thing. It's\nthis very susceptibility to outward things that gives me what faculty\nI have; and it seems to me as if my bread, and my wife's too, were to\ndepend upon it. You'll soon see for yourself the terms which I am on\nwith my father!\"\n\nRoger did soon see. His father had slipped into a habit of silence\nat meal-times--a habit which Osborne, who was troubled and anxious\nenough for his own part, had not striven to break. Father and son\nsate together, and exchanged all the necessary speeches connected\nwith the occasion civilly enough; but it was a relief to them when\ntheir intercourse was over, and they separated--the father to brood\nover his sorrow and his disappointment, which were real and deep\nenough, and the injury he had received from his boy, which was\nexaggerated in his mind by his ignorance of the actual steps Osborne\nhad taken to raise money. If the money-lenders had calculated the\nchances of his father's life or death in making their bargain,\nOsborne himself had thought only of how soon and how easily he could\nget the money requisite for clearing him from all imperious claims\nat Cambridge, and for enabling him to follow Aimée to her home in\nAlsace, and for the subsequent marriage. As yet, Roger had never seen\nhis brother's wife; indeed, he had only been taken into Osborne's\nfull confidence after all was decided in which his advice could have\nbeen useful. And now, in the enforced separation, Osborne's whole\nthought, both the poetical and practical sides of his mind, ran\nupon the little wife who was passing her lonely days in farmhouse\nlodgings, wondering when her bridegroom husband would come to her\nnext. With such an engrossing subject, it was, perhaps, no wonder\nthat he unconsciously neglected his father; but it was none the less\nsad at the time, and to be regretted in its consequences.\n\n\"I may come in and have a pipe with you, sir, mayn't I?\" said Roger,\nthat first evening, pushing gently against the study-door, which his\nfather held only half open.\n\n\"You'll not like it,\" said the squire, still holding the door against\nhim, but speaking in a relenting tone. \"The tobacco I use isn't what\nyoung men like. Better go and have a cigar with Osborne.\"\n\n\"No. I want to sit with you, and I can stand pretty strong tobacco.\"\n\nRoger pushed in, the resistance slowly giving way before him.\n\n\"It will make your clothes smell. You'll have to borrow Osborne's\nscents to sweeten yourself,\" said the Squire, grimly, at the same\ntime pushing a short smart amber-mouthed pipe to his son.\n\n\"No; I'll have a churchwarden. Why, father, do you think I'm a baby\nto put up with a doll's head like this?\" looking at the carving upon\nit.\n\nThe Squire was pleased in his heart, though he did not choose to\nshow it. He only said, \"Osborne brought it me when he came back from\nGermany. That's three years ago.\" And then for some time they smoked\nin silence. But the voluntary companionship of his son was very\nsoothing to the Squire, though not a word might be said.\n\nThe next speech he made showed the direction of his thoughts; indeed,\nhis words were always a transparent medium through which the current\nmight be seen.\n\n\"A deal of a man's life comes and goes in three years--I've found\nthat out;\" and he puffed away at his pipe again. While Roger was\nturning over in his mind what answer to make to this truism, the\nsquire again stopped his smoking and spoke.\n\n\"I remember when there was all that fuss about the Prince of\nWales being made regent, I read somewhere--I daresay it was in a\nnewspaper--that kings and their heirs-apparent were always on bad\nterms. Osborne was quite a little chap then: he used to go out riding\nwith me on White Surrey;--you won't remember the pony we called White\nSurrey?\"\n\n\"I remember it; but I thought it a tall horse in those days.\"\n\n\"Ah! that was because you were such a small lad, you know. I'd seven\nhorses in the stable then--not counting the farm-horses. I don't\nrecollect having a care then, except--_she_ was always delicate, you\nknow. But what a beautiful boy Osborne was! He was always dressed in\nblack velvet--it was a foppery, but it wasn't my doing, and it was\nall right, I'm sure. He's a handsome fellow now, but the sunshine has\ngone out of his face.\"\n\n\"He's a good deal troubled about this money, and the anxiety he has\ngiven you,\" said Roger, rather taking his brother's feelings for\ngranted.\n\n\"Not he,\" said the Squire, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and\nhitting the bowl so sharply against the hob that it broke in pieces.\n\"There! But never mind! I say, not he, Roger! He's none troubled\nabout the money. It's easy getting money from Jews if you're the\neldest son, and the heir. They just ask, 'How old is your father, and\nhas he had a stroke, or a fit?' and it's settled out of hand, and\nthen they come prowling about a place, and running down the timber\nand land--Don't let us speak of him; it's no good, Roger. He and I\nare out of tune, and it seems to me as if only God Almighty could\nput us to rights. It's thinking of how he grieved _her_ at last that\nmakes me so bitter with him. And yet there's a deal of good in him!\nand he's so quick and clever, if only he'd give his mind to things.\nNow, you were always slow, Roger--all your masters used to say so.\"\n\nRoger laughed a little--\n\n\"Yes; I'd many a nickname at school for my slowness,\" said he.\n\n\"Never mind!\" said the Squire, consolingly. \"I'm sure I don't. If you\nwere a clever fellow like Osborne yonder, you'd be all for caring for\nbooks and writing, and you'd perhaps find it as dull as he does to\nkeep company with a bumpkin-squire Jones like me. Yet, I daresay,\nthey think a deal of you at Cambridge,\" said he, after a pause,\n\"since you've got this fine wranglership; I'd nearly forgotten\nthat--the news came at such a miserable time.\"\n\n\"Well, yes! They're always proud of the senior wrangler of the year\nup at Cambridge. Next year I must abdicate.\"\n\nThe Squire sat and gazed into the embers, still holding his useless\npipe-stem. At last he said, in a low voice, as if scarcely aware he\nhad got a listener,--\"I used to write to her when she was away in\nLondon, and tell her the home news. But no letter will reach her now!\nNothing reaches her!\"\n\nRoger started up.\n\n\"Where's the tobacco-box, father? Let me fill you another pipe!\"\nand when he had done so, he stooped over his father and stroked his\ncheek. The Squire shook his head.\n\n\"You've only just come home, lad. You don't know me, as I am\nnow-a-days! Ask Robinson--I won't have you asking Osborne, he ought\nto keep it to himself--but any of the servants will tell you I'm not\nlike the same man for getting into passions with them. I used to\nbe reckoned a good master, but that's past now! Osborne was once a\nlittle boy, and she was once alive--and I was once a good master--a\ngood master--yes! It's all past now.\"\n\nHe took up his pipe, and began to smoke afresh, and Roger, after a\nsilence of some minutes, began a long story about some Cambridge\nman's misadventure on the hunting-field, telling it with such humour\nthat the Squire was beguiled into hearty laughing. When they rose to\ngo to bed his father said to Roger,--\n\n\"Well, we've had a pleasant evening--at least, I have. But perhaps\nyou haven't; for I'm but poor company now, I know.\"\n\n\"I don't know when I've passed a happier evening, father,\" said\nRoger. And he spoke truly, though he did not trouble himself to find\nout the cause of his happiness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nMRS. GIBSON'S LITTLE DINNER.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nAll this had taken place before Roger's first meeting with Molly and\nCynthia at Miss Brownings'; and the little dinner on the Friday at\nMr. Gibson's, which followed in due sequence.\n\nMrs. Gibson intended the Hamleys to find this dinner pleasant; and\nthey did. Mr. Gibson was fond of the two young men, both for their\nparents' sake and their own, for he had known them since boyhood; and\nto those whom he liked Mr. Gibson could be remarkably agreeable. Mrs.\nGibson really gave them a welcome--and cordiality in a hostess is a\nvery becoming mantle for any other deficiencies there may be. Cynthia\nand Molly looked their best, which was all the duty Mrs. Gibson\nabsolutely required of them, as she was willing enough to take her\nfull share in the conversation. Osborne fell to her lot, of course,\nand for some time he and she prattled on with all the ease of manner\nand commonplaceness of meaning which go far to make the \"art of\npolite conversation.\" Roger, who ought to have made himself agreeable\nto one or the other of the young ladies, was exceedingly interested\nin what Mr. Gibson was telling him of a paper on comparative\nosteology in some foreign journal of science, which Lord Hollingford\nwas in the habit of forwarding to his friend the country surgeon.\nYet, every now and then while he listened, he caught his attention\nwandering to the face of Cynthia, who was placed between his brother\nand Mr. Gibson. She was not particularly occupied with attending to\nanything that was going on; her eyelids were carelessly dropped, as\nshe crumbled her bread on the tablecloth, and her beautiful long\neyelashes were seen on the clear tint of her oval cheek. She was\nthinking of something else; Molly was trying to understand with all\nher might. Suddenly Cynthia looked up, and caught Roger's gaze of\nintent admiration too fully for her to be unaware that he was staring\nat her. She coloured a little; but, after the first moment of rosy\nconfusion at his evident admiration of her, she flew to the attack,\ndiverting his confusion at thus being caught, to the defence of\nhimself from her accusation.\n\n\"It is quite true!\" she said to him. \"I was not attending: you see\nI don't know even the A B C of science. But, please, don't look so\nseverely at me, even if I am a dunce!\"\n\n\"I didn't know--I didn't mean to look severely, I am sure,\" replied\nhe, not knowing well what to say.\n\n\"Cynthia is not a dunce either,\" said Mrs. Gibson, afraid lest her\ndaughter's opinion of herself might be taken seriously. \"But I have\nalways observed that some people have a talent for one thing and\nsome for another. Now Cynthia's talents are not for science and the\nseverer studies. Do you remember, love, what trouble I had to teach\nyou the use of the globes?\"\n\n\"Yes; and I don't know longitude from latitude now; and I'm always\npuzzled as to which is perpendicular and which is horizontal.\"\n\n\"Yet, I do assure you,\" her mother continued, rather addressing\nherself to Osborne, \"that her memory for poetry is prodigious. I have\nheard her repeat the 'Prisoner of Chillon' from beginning to end.\"\n\n\"It would be rather a bore to have to hear her, I think,\" said Mr.\nGibson, smiling at Cynthia, who gave him back one of her bright looks\nof mutual understanding.\n\n\"Ah, Mr. Gibson, I have found out before now that you have no soul\nfor poetry; and Molly there is your own child. She reads such deep\nbooks--all about facts and figures: she'll be quite a blue-stocking\nby-and-by.\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Molly, reddening, \"you think it was a deep book because\nthere were the shapes of the different cells of bees in it! but it\nwas not at all deep. It was very interesting.\"\n\n\"Never mind, Molly,\" said Osborne. \"I stand up for blue-stockings.\"\n\n\"And I object to the distinction implied in what you say,\" said\nRoger. \"It was not deep, _ergo_, it was very interesting. Now, a book\nmay be both deep and interesting.\"\n\n\"Oh, if you are going to chop logic and use Latin words, I think it\nis time for us to leave the room,\" said Mrs. Gibson.\n\n\"Don't let us run away as if we were beaten, mamma,\" said Cynthia.\n\"Though it may be logic, I, for one, can understand what Mr. Roger\nHamley said just now; and I read some of Molly's books; and whether\nit was deep or not I found it very interesting--more so than I should\nthink the 'Prisoner of Chillon' now-a-days. I've displaced the\nPrisoner to make room for Johnnie Gilpin as my favourite poem.\"\n\n\"How could you talk such nonsense, Cynthia!\" said Mrs. Gibson, as the\ngirls followed her upstairs. \"You know you are not a dunce. It is all\nvery well not to be a blue-stocking, because gentle-people don't like\nthat kind of woman; but running yourself down, and contradicting all\nI said about your liking for Byron, and poets and poetry--to Osborne\nHamley of all men, too!\"\n\nMrs. Gibson spoke quite crossly for her.\n\n\"But, mamma,\" Cynthia replied, \"I am either a dunce, or I am not. If\nI am, I did right to own it; if I am not, he's a dunce if he doesn't\nfind out I was joking.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Gibson, a little puzzled by this speech, and\nwanting some elucidatory addition.\n\n\"Only that if he's a dunce his opinion of me is worth nothing. So,\nany way, it doesn't signify.\"\n\n\"You really bewilder me with your nonsense, child. Molly is worth\ntwenty of you.\"\n\n\"I quite agree with you, mamma,\" said Cynthia, turning round to take\nMolly's hand.\n\n\"Yes; but she ought not to be,\" said Mrs. Gibson, still irritated.\n\"Think of the advantages you've had.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I had rather be a dunce than a blue-stocking,\" said\nMolly; for the term had a little annoyed her, and the annoyance was\nrankling still.\n\n\"Hush; here they are coming: I hear the dining-room door! I never\nmeant you were a blue-stocking, dear, so don't look vexed.--Cynthia,\nmy love, where did you get those lovely flowers--anemones, are they?\nThey suit your complexion so exactly.\"\n\n\"Come, Molly, don't look so grave and thoughtful,\" exclaimed Cynthia.\n\"Don't you perceive mamma wants us to be smiling and amiable?\"\n\nMr. Gibson had had to go out to his evening round; and the young men\nwere all too glad to come up into the pretty drawing-room; the bright\nlittle wood-fire; the comfortable easy-chairs which, with so small\na party, might be drawn round the hearth; the good-natured hostess;\nthe pretty, agreeable girls. Roger sauntered up to the corner where\nCynthia was standing, playing with a hand-screen.\n\n\"There is a charity ball in Hollingford soon, isn't there?\" asked he.\n\n\"Yes; on Easter Tuesday,\" she replied.\n\n\"Are you going? I suppose you are?\"\n\n\"Yes; mamma is going to take Molly and me.\"\n\n\"You will enjoy it very much--going together?\"\n\nFor the first time during this little conversation she glanced up at\nhim--real honest pleasure shining out of her eyes.\n\n\"Yes; going together will make the enjoyment of the thing. It would\nbe dull without her.\"\n\n\"You are great friends, then?\" he asked.\n\n\"I never thought I should like any one so much,--any girl I mean.\"\n\nShe put in the final reservation in all simplicity of heart; and in\nall simplicity did he understand it. He came ever so little nearer,\nand dropped his voice a little.\n\n\"I was so anxious to know. I am so glad. I have often wondered how\nyou two were getting on.\"\n\n\"Have you?\" said she, looking up again. \"At Cambridge? You must be\nvery fond of Molly!\"\n\n\"Yes, I am. She was with us so long; and at such a time! I look upon\nher almost as a sister.\"\n\n\"And she is very fond of all of you. I seem to know you all from\nhearing her talk about you so much.--All of you!\" said she, laying an\nemphasis on \"all\" to show that it included the dead as well as the\nliving. Roger was silent for a minute or two.\n\n\"I didn't know you, even by hearsay. So you mustn't wonder that I was\na little afraid. But as soon as I saw you I knew how it must be; and\nit was such a relief!\"\n\n\"Cynthia,\" said Mrs. Gibson, who thought that the younger son had had\nquite his share of low, confidential conversation, \"come here, and\nsing that little French ballad to Mr. Osborne Hamley.\"\n\n\"Which do you mean, mamma? 'Tu t'en repentiras, Colin?'\"\n\n\"Yes; such a pretty, playful little warning to young men,\" said Mrs.\nGibson, smiling up at Osborne. \"The refrain is--\n\n   Tu t'en repentiras, Colin,\n     Tu t'en repentiras,\n   Car si tu prends une femme, Colin,\n     Tu t'en repentiras.\n\nThe advice may apply very well when there is a French wife in the\ncase; but not, I am sure, to an Englishman who is thinking of an\nEnglish wife.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"TU T'EN REPENTIRAS, COLIN.\"]\n\n\nThis choice of a song was exceedingly _mal-àpropos_, had Mrs. Gibson\nbut known it. Osborne and Roger knowing that the wife of the former\nwas a Frenchwoman, and, conscious of each other's knowledge, felt\ndoubly awkward; while Molly was as much confused as though she\nherself were secretly married. However, Cynthia carolled the saucy\nditty out, and her mother smiled at it, in total ignorance of any\napplication it might have. Osborne had instinctively gone to stand\nbehind Cynthia, as she sate at the piano, so as to be ready to turn\nover the leaves of her music if she required it. He kept his hands\nin his pockets and his eyes fixed on her fingers; his countenance\nclouded with gravity at all the merry quips which she so playfully\nsang. Roger looked grave as well, but was much more at his ease than\nhis brother; indeed, he was half-amused by the awkwardness of the\nsituation. He caught Molly's troubled eyes and heightened colour, and\nhe saw that she was feeling this _contretemps_ more seriously than\nshe needed to do. He moved to a seat by her, and half whispered, \"Too\nlate a warning, is it not?\"\n\nMolly looked up at him as he leant towards her, and replied in the\nsame tone--\"Oh, I am so sorry!\"\n\n\"You need not be. He won't mind it long; and a man must take the\nconsequences when he puts himself in a false position.\"\n\nMolly could not tell what to reply to this, so she hung her head\nand kept silence. Yet she could see that Roger did not change his\nattitude or remove his hand from the back of his chair, and, impelled\nby curiosity to find out the cause of his stillness, she looked up at\nhim at length, and saw his gaze fixed on the two who were near the\npiano. Osborne was saying something eagerly to Cynthia, whose grave\neyes were upturned to him with soft intentness of expression, and her\npretty mouth half-open, with a sort of impatience for him to cease\nspeaking, that she might reply.\n\n\"They are talking about France,\" said Roger, in answer to Molly's\nunspoken question. \"Osborne knows it well, and Miss Kirkpatrick has\nbeen at school there, you know. It sounds very interesting; shall we\ngo nearer and hear what they are saying?\"\n\nIt was all very well to ask this civilly, but Molly thought it would\nhave been better to wait for her answer. Instead of waiting, however,\nRoger went to the piano, and, leaning on it, appeared to join in the\nlight merry talk, while he feasted his eyes as much as he dared by\nlooking at Cynthia. Molly suddenly felt as if she could scarcely keep\nfrom crying--a minute ago he had been so near to her, and talking so\npleasantly and confidentially; and now he almost seemed as if he had\nforgotten her existence. She thought that all this was wrong; and\nshe exaggerated its wrongness to herself; \"mean,\" and \"envious of\nCynthia,\" and \"ill-natured,\" and \"selfish,\" were the terms she kept\napplying to herself; but it did no good, she was just as naughty at\nthe last as at the first.\n\nMrs. Gibson broke into the state of things which Molly thought was to\nendure for ever. Her work had been intricate up to this time, and had\nrequired a great deal of counting; so she had had no time to attend\nto her duties, one of which she always took to be to show herself to\nthe world as an impartial stepmother. Cynthia had played and sung,\nand now she must give Molly her turn of exhibition. Cynthia's singing\nand playing was light and graceful, but anything but correct; but\nshe herself was so charming, that it was only fanatics for music who\ncared for false chords and omitted notes. Molly, on the contrary, had\nan excellent ear, if she had ever been well taught; and both from\ninclination and conscientious perseverance of disposition, she would\ngo over an incorrect passage for twenty times. But she was very shy\nof playing in company; and when forced to do it, she went through her\nperformance heavily, and hated her handiwork more than any one.\n\n\"Now, you must play a little, Molly,\" said Mrs. Gibson; \"play us that\nbeautiful piece of Kalkbrenner's, my dear.\"\n\nMolly looked up at her stepmother with beseeching eyes; but it only\nbrought out another form of request, still more like a command.\n\n\"Go at once, my dear. You may not play it quite rightly; and I know\nyou are very nervous; but you're quite amongst friends.\"\n\nSo there was a disturbance made in the little group at the piano, and\nMolly sate down to her martyrdom.\n\n\"Please, go away!\" said she to Osborne, who was standing behind her\nready to turn over. \"I can quite well do it for myself. And oh! if\nyou would but talk!\"\n\nOsborne remained where he was in spite of her appeal, and gave\nher what little approval she got; for Mrs. Gibson, exhausted by\nher previous labour of counting her stitches, fell asleep in her\ncomfortable sofa-corner near the fire; and Roger, who began at first\nto talk a little in compliance with Molly's request, found his\nconversation with Cynthia so agreeable, that Molly lost her place\nseveral times in trying to catch a sudden glimpse of Cynthia sitting\nat her work, and Roger by her, intent on catching her low replies to\nwhat he was saying.\n\n\"There, now I've done!\" said Molly, standing up quickly as soon as\nshe had finished the eighteen dreary pages; \"and I think I will never\nsit down to play again!\"\n\nOsborne laughed at her vehemence. Cynthia began to take some part\nin what was being said, and thus made the conversation general. Mrs.\nGibson wakened up gracefully, as was her way of doing all things, and\nslid into the subjects they were talking about so easily, that she\nalmost succeeded in making them believe she had never been asleep at\nall.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nHOLLINGFORD IN A BUSTLE.\n\n\nAll Hollingford felt as if there was a great deal to be done before\nEaster this year. There was Easter proper, which always required new\nclothing of some kind, for fear of certain consequences from little\nbirds, who were supposed to resent the impiety of those that did\nnot wear some new article of dress on Easter-day. And most ladies\nconsidered it wiser that the little birds should see the new article\nfor themselves, and not have to take it upon trust, as they would\nhave to do if it were merely a pocket-handkerchief, or a petticoat,\nor any article of under-clothing. So piety demanded a new bonnet, or\na new gown; and was barely satisfied with an Easter pair of gloves.\nMiss Rose was generally very busy just before Easter in Hollingford.\nThen this year there was the charity ball. Ashcombe, Hollingford, and\nCoreham were three neighbouring towns, of about the same number of\npopulation, lying at the three equidistant corners of a triangle. In\nimitation of greater cities with their festivals, these three towns\nhad agreed to have an annual ball for the benefit of the county\nhospital to be held in turn at each place; and Hollingford was to be\nthe place this year.\n\nIt was a fine time for hospitality, and every house of any pretension\nwas as full as it could hold, and flys were engaged long months\nbefore.\n\nIf Mrs. Gibson could have asked Osborne, or in default, Roger Hamley\nto go to the ball with them and to sleep at their house,--or if,\nindeed, she could have picked up any stray scion of a \"county family\"\nto whom such an offer would have been a convenience, she would have\nrestored her own dressing-room to its former use as the spare-room,\nwith pleasure. But she did not think it was worth her while to put\nherself out for any of the humdrum and ill-dressed women who had been\nher former acquaintances at Ashcombe. For Mr. Preston it might have\nbeen worth while to give up her room, considering him in the light of\na handsome and prosperous young man, and a good dancer besides. But\nthere were more lights in which he was to be viewed. Mr. Gibson, who\nreally wanted to return the hospitality shown to him by Mr. Preston\nat the time of his marriage, had yet an instinctive distaste to the\nman, which no wish of freeing himself from obligation, nor even the\nmore worthy feeling of hospitality, could overcome. Mrs. Gibson\nhad some old grudges of her own against him, but she was not one\nto retain angry feelings, or be very active in her retaliation;\nshe was afraid of Mr. Preston, and admired him at the same time.\nIt was awkward too--so she said--to go into a ball-room without\nany gentleman at all, and Mr. Gibson was so uncertain! On the\nwhole--partly for this last-given reason, and partly because\nconciliation was the best policy, Mrs. Gibson was slightly in favour\nof inviting Mr. Preston to be their guest. But as soon as Cynthia\nheard the question discussed--or rather, as soon as she heard it\ndiscussed in Mr. Gibson's absence, she said that if Mr. Preston came\nto be their visitor on the occasion, she for one would not go to the\nball at all. She did not speak with vehemence or in anger; but with\nsuch quiet resolution that Molly looked up in surprise. She saw\nthat Cynthia was keeping her eyes fixed on her work, and that she\nhad no intention of meeting any one's gaze, or giving any further\nexplanation. Mrs. Gibson, too, looked perplexed, and once or twice\nseemed on the point of asking some question; but she was not angry\nas Molly had fully expected. She watched Cynthia furtively and in\nsilence for a minute or two, and then said that, after all, she could\nnot conveniently give up her dressing-room; and, altogether, they had\nbetter say no more about it. So no stranger was invited to stay at\nMr. Gibson's at the time of the ball; but Mrs. Gibson openly spoke\nof her regret at the unavoidable inhospitality, and hoped that they\nmight be able to build an addition to their house before the next\ntriennial Hollingford ball.\n\nAnother cause of unusual bustle at Hollingford this Easter was the\nexpected return of the family to the Towers, after their unusually\nlong absence. Mr. Sheepshanks might be seen trotting up and down on\nhis stout old cob, speaking to attentive masons, plasterers, and\nglaziers about putting everything--on the outside at least--about\nthe cottages belonging to \"my lord,\" in perfect repair. Lord Cumnor\nowned the greater part of the town; and those who lived under other\nlandlords, or in houses of their own, were stirred up by the dread\nof contrast to do up their dwellings. So the ladders of whitewashers\nand painters were sadly in the way of the ladies tripping daintily\nalong to make their purchases, and holding their gowns up in a bunch\nbehind, after a fashion quite gone out in these days. The housekeeper\nand steward from the Towers might also be seen coming in to give\norders at the various shops; and stopping here and there at those\nkept by favourites, to avail themselves of the eagerly-tendered\nrefreshments.\n\nLady Harriet came to call on her old governess the day after the\narrival of the family at the Towers. Molly and Cynthia were out\nwalking when she came--doing some errands for Mrs. Gibson, who had a\nsecret idea that Lady Harriet would call at the particular time she\ndid, and had a not uncommon wish to talk to her ladyship without the\ncorrective presence of any member of her own family.\n\nMrs. Gibson did not give Molly the message of remembrance that Lady\nHarriet had left for her; but she imparted various pieces of news\nrelating to the Towers with great animation and interest. The Duchess\nof Menteith and her daughter, Lady Alice, were coming to the Towers;\nwould be there the day of the ball; would come to the ball; and the\nMenteith diamonds were famous. That was piece of news the first.\nThe second was that ever so many gentlemen were coming to the\nTowers--some English, some French. This piece of news would have come\nfirst in order of importance had there been much probability of their\nbeing dancing men, and, as such, possible partners at the coming\nball. But Lady Harriet had spoken of them as Lord Hollingford's\nfriends, useless scientific men in all probability. Then, finally,\nMrs. Gibson was to go to the Towers next day to lunch; Lady Cumnor\nhad written a little note by Lady Harriet to beg her to come; if\nMrs. Gibson could manage to find her way to the Towers, one of the\ncarriages in use should bring her back to her own home in the course\nof the afternoon.\n\n\"The dear countess!\" said Mrs. Gibson, with soft affection. It was\na soliloquy, uttered after a minute's pause, at the end of all this\ninformation.\n\nAnd all the rest of that day her conversation had an aristocratic\nperfume hanging about it. One of the few books she had brought with\nher into Mr. Gibson's house was bound in pink, and in it she studied\n\"Menteith, Duke of, Adolphus George,\" &c., &c., till she was fully up\nin all the duchess's connections, and probable interests. Mr. Gibson\nmade his mouth up into a droll whistle when he came home at night,\nand found himself in a Towers' atmosphere. Molly saw the shade\nof annoyance through the drollery; she was beginning to see it\noftener than she liked, not that she reasoned upon it, or that she\nconsciously traced the annoyance to its source; but she could not\nhelp feeling uneasy in herself when she knew her father was in the\nleast put out.\n\nOf course a fly was ordered for Mrs. Gibson. In the early afternoon\nshe came home. If she had been disappointed in her interview with\nthe countess she never told her woe, nor revealed the fact that when\nshe first arrived at the Towers she had to wait for an hour in Lady\nCumnor's morning-room, uncheered by any companionship save that of\nher old friend, Mrs. Bradley, till suddenly, Lady Harriet coming in,\nshe exclaimed, \"Why, Clare! you dear woman! are you here all alone?\nDoes mamma know?\" And, after a little more affectionate conversation,\nshe rushed to find her ladyship, who was perfectly aware of the fact,\nbut too deep in giving the duchess the benefit of her wisdom and\nexperience in trousseaux to be at all aware of the length of time\nMrs. Gibson had been passing in patient solitude. At lunch Mrs.\nGibson was secretly hurt by my lord's supposing it to be her dinner,\nand calling out his urgent hospitality from the very bottom of the\ntable, giving as a reason for it, that she must remember it was her\ndinner. In vain she piped out in her soft, high voice, \"Oh, my lord!\nI never eat meat in the middle of the day; I can hardly eat anything\nat lunch.\" Her voice was lost, and the duchess might go away with the\nidea that the Hollingford doctor's wife dined early; that is to say,\nif her grace ever condescended to have any idea on the subject at\nall; which presupposes that she was cognizant of the fact of there\nbeing a doctor at Hollingford, and that he had a wife, and that his\nwife was the pretty, faded, elegant-looking woman sending away her\nplate of untasted food--food which she longed to eat, for she was\nreally desperately hungry after her drive and her solitude.\n\nAnd then after lunch there did come a _tête-à-tête_ with Lady Cumnor,\nwhich was conducted after this wise:--\n\n\"Well, Clare! I am really glad to see you. I once thought I should\nnever get back to the Towers, but here I am! There was such a clever\nman at Bath--a Doctor Snape--he cured me at last--quite set me up. I\nreally think if ever I am ill again I shall send for him: it is such\na thing to find a really clever medical man. Oh, by the way, I always\nforget you've married Mr. Gibson--of course he is very clever, and\nall that. (The carriage to the door in ten minutes, Brown, and desire\nBradley to bring my things down.) What was I asking you? Oh! how do\nyou get on with the stepdaughter? She seemed to me to be a young lady\nwith a pretty stubborn will of her own. I put a letter for the post\ndown somewhere, and I cannot think where; do help me look for it,\nthere's a good woman. Just run to my room, and see if Brown can find\nit, for it is of great consequence.\"\n\nOff went Mrs. Gibson, rather unwillingly; for there were several\nthings she wanted to speak about, and she had not heard half of what\nshe had expected to learn of the family gossip. But all chance was\ngone; for when she came back from her fruitless errand, Lady Cumnor\nand the duchess were in full talk, Lady Cumnor with the missing\nletter in her hand, which she was using something like a baton to\nenforce her words.\n\n\"Every iota from Paris! Every i-o-ta!\"\n\nLady Cumnor was too much of a lady not to apologize for useless\ntrouble, but they were nearly the last words she spoke to Mrs.\nGibson, for she had to go out and drive with the duchess; and the\nbrougham to take \"Clare\" (as she persisted in calling Mrs. Gibson)\nback to Hollingford followed the carriage to the door. Lady Harriet\ncame away from her _entourage_ of young men and young ladies, all\nprepared for some walking expedition, to wish Mrs. Gibson good-by.\n\n\"We shall see you at the ball,\" she said. \"You'll be there with your\ntwo girls, of course, and I must have a little talk with you there;\nwith all these visitors in the house, it has been impossible to see\nanything of you to-day, you know.\"\n\nSuch were the facts, but rose-colour was the medium through which\nthey were seen by Mrs. Gibson's household listeners on her return.\n\n\"There are many visitors staying at the Towers--oh, yes! a great\nmany: the duchess and Lady Alice, and Mr. and Mrs. Grey, and Lord\nAlbert Monson and his sister, and my old friend Captain James of the\nBlues--many more, in fact. But, of course, I preferred going to Lady\nCumnor's own room, where I could see her and Lady Harriet quietly,\nand where we were not disturbed by the bustle downstairs. Of course\nwe were obliged to go down to lunch, and then I saw my old friends,\nand renewed pleasant acquaintances. But I really could hardly get any\nconnected conversation with any one. Lord Cumnor seemed so delighted\nto see me there again: though there were six or seven between us, he\nwas always interrupting with some civil or kind speech especially\naddressed to me. And after lunch Lady Cumnor asked me all sorts of\nquestions about my new life with as much interest as if I had been\nher daughter. To be sure, when the duchess came in we had to leave\noff, and talk about the trousseau she is preparing for Lady Alice.\nLady Harriet made such a point of our meeting at the ball; she is\nsuch a good, affectionate creature, is Lady Harriet!\"\n\nThis last was said in a tone of meditative appreciation.\n\nThe afternoon of the day on which the ball was to take place, a\nservant rode over from Hamley with two lovely nosegays, \"with the\nMr. Hamleys' compliments to Miss Gibson and Miss Kirkpatrick.\"\nCynthia was the first to receive them. She came dancing into the\ndrawing-room, flourishing the flowers about in either hand, and\ndanced up to Molly, who was trying to settle to her reading, by way\nof passing the time away till the evening came.\n\n\"Look, Molly, look! Here are bouquets for us! Long life to the\ngivers!\"\n\n\"Who are they from?\" asked Molly, taking hold of one, and examining\nit with tender delight at its beauty.\n\n\"Who from? Why, the two paragons of Hamleys, to be sure. Is it not a\npretty attention?\"\n\n\"How kind of them!\" said Molly.\n\n\"I'm sure it is Osborne who thought of it. He has been so much\nabroad, where it is such a common compliment to send bouquets to\nyoung ladies.\"\n\n\"I don't see why you should think it is Osborne's thought!\" said\nMolly, reddening a little. \"Mr. Roger Hamley used to gather nosegays\nconstantly for his mother, and sometimes for me.\"\n\n\"Well, never mind whose thought it was, or who gathered them; we've\ngot the flowers, and that's enough. Molly, I'm sure these red flowers\nwill just match your coral necklace and bracelets,\" said Cynthia,\npulling out some camellias, then a rare kind of flower.\n\n\"Oh, please, don't!\" exclaimed Molly. \"Don't you see how carefully\nthe colours are arranged--they have taken such pains; please, don't.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Cynthia, continuing to pull them out; \"see, here are\nquite enough. I'll make you a little coronet of them--sewn on black\nvelvet, which will never be seen--just as they do in France!\"\n\n\"Oh, I am so sorry! It is quite spoilt,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Never mind! I'll take this spoilt bouquet; I can make it up again\njust as prettily as ever; and you shall have this, which has never\nbeen touched.\" Cynthia went on arranging the crimson buds and flowers\nto her taste. Molly said nothing, but kept watching Cynthia's nimble\nfingers tying up the wreath.\n\n\"There!\" said Cynthia, at last, \"when that is sewn on black velvet,\nto keep the flowers from dying, you'll see how pretty it will look.\nAnd there are enough red flowers in this untouched nosegay to carry\nout the idea!\"\n\n\"Thank you\" (very slowly). \"But sha'n't you mind having only the\nwrecks of the other?\"\n\n\"Not I; red flowers would not go with my pink dress.\"\n\n\"But--I daresay they arranged each nosegay so carefully!\"\n\n\"Perhaps they did. But I never would allow sentiment to interfere\nwith my choice of colours; and pink does tie one down. Now you,\nin white muslin, just tipped with crimson, like a daisy, may wear\nanything.\"\n\nCynthia took the utmost pains in dressing Molly, leaving the clever\nhousemaid to her mother's exclusive service. Mrs. Gibson was more\nanxious about her attire than was either of the girls; it had given\nher occasion for deep thought and not a few sighs. Her deliberation\nhad ended in her wearing her pearl-grey satin wedding-gown, with a\nprofusion of lace, and white and coloured lilacs. Cynthia was the one\nwho took the affair most lightly. Molly looked upon the ceremony of\ndressing for a first ball as rather a serious ceremony; certainly as\nan anxious proceeding. Cynthia was almost as anxious as herself; only\nMolly wanted her appearance to be correct and unnoticed; and Cynthia\nwas desirous of setting off Molly's rather peculiar charms--her\ncream-coloured skin, her profusion of curly black hair, her beautiful\nlong-shaped eyes, with their shy, loving expression. Cynthia took\nup so much time in dressing Molly to her mind, that she herself had\nto perform her toilette in a hurry. Molly, ready dressed, sate on a\nlow chair in Cynthia's room, watching the pretty creature's rapid\nmovements, as she stood in her petticoat before the glass, doing up\nher hair, with quick certainty of effect. At length, Molly heaved a\nlong sigh, and said,--\n\n\"I should like to be pretty!\"\n\n\"Why, Molly,\" said Cynthia, turning round with an exclamation on the\ntip of her tongue; but when she caught the innocent, wistful look on\nMolly's face, she instinctively checked what she was going to say,\nand, half-smiling to her own reflection in the glass, she said,--\"The\nFrench girls would tell you, to believe that you were pretty would\nmake you so.\"\n\nMolly paused before replying,--\n\n\"I suppose they would mean that if you knew you were pretty, you\nwould never think about your looks; you would be so certain of being\nliked, and that it is caring--\"\n\n\"Listen! that's eight o'clock striking. Don't trouble yourself with\ntrying to interpret a French girl's meaning, but help me on with my\nfrock, there's a dear one.\"\n\nThe two girls were dressed, and were standing over the fire waiting\nfor the carriage in Cynthia's room, when Maria (Betty's successor)\ncame hurrying into the room. Maria had been officiating as maid to\nMrs. Gibson, but she had had intervals of leisure, in which she had\nrushed upstairs, and, under the pretence of offering her services,\nhad seen the young ladies' dresses, and the sight of so many nice\nclothes had sent her into a state of excitement which made her think\nnothing of rushing upstairs for the twentieth time, with a nosegay\nstill more beautiful than the two previous ones.\n\n\"Here, Miss Kirkpatrick! No, it's not for you, miss!\" as Molly, being\nnearer to the door, offered to take it and pass it to Cynthia. \"It's\nfor Miss Kirkpatrick; and there's a note for her besides!\"\n\nCynthia said nothing, but took the note and the flowers. She held the\nnote so that Molly could read it at the same time she did.\n\n\n   I send you some flowers; and you must allow me to claim\n   the first dance after nine o'clock, before which time I\n   fear I cannot arrive.--R. P.\n\n\n\"Who is it?\" asked Molly.\n\nCynthia looked extremely irritated, indignant, perplexed--what was it\nturned her cheek so pale, and made her eyes so full of fire?\n\n\"It is Mr. Preston,\" said she, in answer to Molly. \"I shall not dance\nwith him; and here go his flowers--\"\n\nInto the very middle of the embers, which she immediately stirred\ndown upon the beautiful shrivelling petals as if she wished to\nannihilate them as soon as possible. Her voice had never been raised;\nit was as sweet as usual; nor, though her movements were prompt\nenough, were they hasty or violent.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Molly, \"those beautiful flowers! We might have put them in\nwater.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Cynthia; \"it's best to destroy them. We don't want them;\nand I can't bear to be reminded of that man.\"\n\n\"It was an impertinent familiar note,\" said Molly. \"What right had\nhe to express himself in that way--no beginning, no end, and only\ninitials! Did you know him well when you were at Ashcombe, Cynthia?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't let us think any more about him,\" replied Cynthia. \"It is\nquite enough to spoil any pleasure at the ball to think that he will\nbe there. But I hope I shall get engaged before he comes, so that I\ncan't dance with him--and don't you, either!\"\n\n\"There! they are calling for us,\" exclaimed Molly, and with quick\nstep, yet careful of their draperies, they made their way downstairs\nto the place where Mr. and Mrs. Gibson awaited them. Yes; Mr. Gibson\nwas going,--even if he had to leave them afterwards to attend to any\nprofessional call. And Molly suddenly began to admire her father\nas a handsome man, when she saw him now, in full evening attire.\nMrs. Gibson, too--how pretty she was! In short, it was true that no\nbetter-looking a party than these four people entered the Hollingford\nball-room that evening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nA CHARITY BALL.\n\n\nAt the present time there are few people at a public ball besides the\ndancers and their chaperones, or relations in some degree interested\nin them. But in the days when Molly and Cynthia were young--before\nrailroads were, and before their consequences, the excursion-trains,\nwhich take every one up to London now-a-days, there to see their fill\nof gay crowds and fine dresses--to go to an annual charity-ball, even\nthough all thought of dancing had passed by years ago, and without\nany of the responsibilities of a chaperone, was a very allowable\nand favourite piece of dissipation to all the kindly old maids who\nthronged the country towns of England. They aired their old lace and\ntheir best dresses; they saw the aristocratic magnates of the country\nside; they gossipped with their coevals, and speculated on the\nromances of the young around them in a curious yet friendly spirit.\nThe Miss Brownings would have thought themselves sadly defrauded\nof the gayest event of the year, if anything had prevented their\nattending the charity ball, and Miss Browning would have been\nindignant, Miss Phoebe aggrieved, had they not been asked to\nAshcombe and Coreham, by friends at each place, who had, like them,\ngone through the dancing-stage of life some five-and-twenty years\nbefore, but who liked still to haunt the scenes of their former\nenjoyment, and see a younger generation dance on \"regardless of their\ndoom.\" They had come in one of the two sedan-chairs that yet lingered\nin use at Hollingford; such a night as this brought a regular harvest\nof gains to the two old men who, in what was called the \"town's\nlivery,\" trotted backwards and forwards with their many loads of\nladies and finery. There were some postchaises, and some \"flys,\" but\nafter mature deliberation Miss Browning had decided to keep to the\nmore comfortable custom of the sedan-chair; \"which,\" as she said to\nMiss Piper, one of her visitors, \"came into the parlour, and got full\nof the warm air, and nipped you up, and carried you tight and cosy\ninto another warm room, where you could walk out without having to\nshow your legs by going up steps, or down steps.\" Of course only one\ncould go at a time; but here again a little of Miss Browning's good\nmanagement arranged everything so very nicely, as Miss Hornblower\n(their other visitor) remarked. She went first, and remained in the\nwarm cloak-room until her hostess followed; and then the two ladies\nwent arm-in-arm into the ball-room, finding out convenient seats\nwhence they could watch the arrivals and speak to their passing\nfriends, until Miss Phoebe and Miss Piper entered, and came to take\npossession of the seats reserved for them by Miss Browning's care.\nThese two younger ladies came in, also arm-in-arm, but with a certain\ntimid flurry in look and movement very different from the composed\ndignity of their seniors (by two or three years). When all four\nwere once more assembled together, they took breath, and began to\nconverse.\n\n\"Upon my word, I really do think this is a better room than our\nAshcombe Court-house!\"\n\n\"And how prettily it is decorated!\" piped out Miss Piper. \"How well\nthe roses are made! But you all have such taste at Hollingford.\"\n\n\"There's Mrs. Dempster,\" cried Miss Hornblower; \"she said she and her\ntwo daughters were asked to stay at Mr. Sheepshanks'. Mr. Preston\nwas to be there, too; but I suppose they could not all come at once.\nLook! and there is young Roscoe, our new doctor. I declare it seems\nas if all Ashcombe were here. Mr. Roscoe! Mr. Roscoe! come here and\nlet me introduce you to Miss Browning, the friend we are staying\nwith. We think very highly of our young doctor, I can assure you,\nMiss Browning.\"\n\nMr. Roscoe bowed, and simpered at hearing his own praises. But Miss\nBrowning had no notion of having any doctor praised, who had come to\nsettle on the very verge of Mr. Gibson's practice, so she said to\nMiss Hornblower,--\n\n\"You must be glad, I am sure, to have somebody you can call in, if\nyou are in any sudden hurry, or for things that are too trifling\nto trouble Mr. Gibson about; and I should think Mr. Roscoe would\nfeel it a great advantage to profit, as he will naturally have the\nopportunity of doing, by witnessing Mr. Gibson's skill!\"\n\nProbably Mr. Roscoe would have felt more aggrieved by this speech\nthan he really was, if his attention had not been called off just\nthen by the entrance of the very Mr. Gibson who was being spoken of.\nAlmost before Miss Browning had ended her severe and depreciatory\nremarks, he had asked his friend Miss Hornblower,--\n\n\"Who is that lovely girl in pink, just come in?\"\n\n\"Why, that's Cynthia Kirkpatrick!\" said Miss Hornblower, taking up a\nponderous gold eyeglass to make sure of her fact. \"How she has grown!\nTo be sure, it is two or three years since she left Ashcombe--she was\nvery pretty then--people did say Mr. Preston admired her very much;\nbut she was so young!\"\n\n\"Can you introduce me?\" asked the impatient young surgeon. \"I should\nlike to ask her to dance.\"\n\nWhen Miss Hornblower returned from her greeting to her former\nacquaintance, Mrs. Gibson, and had accomplished the introduction\nwhich Mr. Roscoe had requested, she began her little confidences to\nMiss Browning.\n\n\"Well, to be sure! How condescending we are! I remember the time when\nMrs. Kirkpatrick wore old black silks, and was thankful and civil\nas became her place as a schoolmistress, and as having to earn her\nbread. And now she is in a satin; and she speaks to me as if she\njust could recollect who I was, if she tried very hard! It isn't so\nlong ago since Mrs. Dempster came to consult me as to whether Mrs.\nKirkpatrick would be offended, if she sent her a new breadth for\nher lilac silk-gown, in place of one that had been spoilt by Mrs.\nDempster's servant spilling the coffee over it the night before; and\nshe took it and was thankful, for all she's dressed in pearl-grey\nsatin now! And she would have been glad enough to marry Mr. Preston\nin those days.\"\n\n\"I thought you said he admired her daughter,\" put in Miss Browning to\nher irritated friend.\n\n\"Well! perhaps I did, and perhaps it was so; I'm sure I can't tell;\nhe was a great deal at the house. Miss Dixon keeps a school in the\nsame house now, and I'm sure she does it a great deal better.\"\n\n\"The earl and the countess are very fond of Mrs. Gibson,\" said Miss\nBrowning. \"I know, for Lady Harriet told us when she came to drink\ntea with us last autumn; and they desired Mr. Preston to be very\nattentive to her when she lived at Ashcombe.\"\n\n\"For goodness' sake don't go and repeat what I've been saying\nabout Mr. Preston and Mrs. Kirkpatrick to her ladyship. One may be\nmistaken, and you know I only said 'people talked about it.'\"\n\nMiss Hornblower was evidently alarmed lest her gossip should be\nrepeated to the Lady Harriet, who appeared to be on such an intimate\nfooting with her Hollingford friends. Nor did Miss Browning dissipate\nthe illusion. Lady Harriet had drunk tea with them, and might do it\nagain; and, at any rate, the little fright she had put her friend\ninto was not a bad return for that praise of Mr. Roscoe, which had\noffended Miss Browning's loyalty to Mr. Gibson.\n\nMeanwhile Miss Piper and Miss Phoebe, who had not the character of\n_esprit-forts_ to maintain, talked of the dresses of the people\npresent, beginning by complimenting each other.\n\n\"What a lovely turban you have got on, Miss Piper, if I may be\nallowed to say so: so becoming to your complexion!\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said Miss Piper, with ill-concealed gratification;\nit was something to have a \"complexion\" at forty-five. \"I got it\nat Brown's, at Somerton, for this very ball. I thought I must have\nsomething to set off my gown, which isn't quite so new as it once\nwas; and I have no handsome jewellery like you\"--looking with\nadmiring eyes at a large miniature set round with pearls, which\nserved as a shield to Miss Phoebe's breast.\n\n\"It is handsome,\" that lady replied. \"It is a likeness of my dear\nmother; Dorothy has got my father on. The miniatures were both taken\nat the same time; and just about then my uncle died and left us each\na legacy of fifty pounds, which we agreed to spend on the setting of\nour miniatures. But because they are so valuable Dorothy always keeps\nthem locked up with the best silver, and hides the box somewhere; she\nnever will tell me where, because she says I've such weak nerves, and\nthat if a burglar, with a loaded pistol at my head, were to ask me\nwhere we kept our plate and jewels, I should be sure to tell him; and\nshe says, for her part, she would never think of revealing under any\ncircumstances. (I'm sure I hope she won't be tried.) But that's the\nreason I don't wear it often; it's only the second time I've had it\non; and I can't even get at it, and look at it, which I should like\nto do. I shouldn't have had it on to-night, but that Dorothy gave\nit out to me, saying it was but a proper compliment to pay to the\nDuchess of Menteith, who is to be here in all her diamonds.\"\n\n\"Dear-ah-me! Is she really! Do you know I never saw a duchess\nbefore.\" And Miss Piper drew herself up and craned her neck, as if\nresolved to \"behave herself properly,\" as she had been taught to\ndo at boarding-school thirty years before, in the presence of \"her\ngrace.\" By-and-by she said to Miss Phoebe, with a sudden jerk out\nof position,--\"Look, look! that's our Mr. Cholmley, the magistrate\"\n(he was the great man of Coreham), \"and that's Mrs. Cholmley in red\nsatin, and Mr. George and Mr. Harry from Oxford, I do declare; and\nMiss Cholmley, and pretty Miss Sophy. I should like to go and speak\nto them, but then it's so formidable crossing a room without a\ngentleman. And there is Coxe the butcher and his wife! Why all\nCoreham seems to be here! And how Mrs. Coxe can afford such a gown I\ncan't make out for one, for I know Coxe had some difficulty in paying\nfor the last sheep he bought of my brother.\"\n\nJust at this moment the band, consisting of two violins, a harp, and\nan occasional clarionet, having finished their tuning, and brought\nthemselves as nearly into accord as was possible, struck up a brisk\ncountry-dance, and partners quickly took their places. Mrs. Gibson\nwas secretly a little annoyed at Cynthia's being one of those\nto stand up in this early dance, the performers in which were\nprincipally the punctual plebeians of Hollingford, who, when a ball\nwas fixed to begin at eight, had no notion of being later, and so\nlosing part of the amusement for which they had paid their money. She\nimparted some of her feelings to Molly, sitting by her, longing to\ndance, and beating time to the spirited music with one of her pretty\nlittle feet.\n\n\"Your dear papa is always so very punctual! To-night it seems almost\na pity, for we really are here before there is any one come that we\nknow.\"\n\n\"Oh! I see so many people here that I know. There are Mr. and Mrs.\nSmeaton, and that nice good-tempered daughter.\"\n\n\"Oh! booksellers and butchers if you will.\"\n\n\"Papa has found a great many friends to talk to.\"\n\n\"Patients, my dear--hardly friends. There are some nice-looking\npeople here,\" catching her eye on the Cholmleys; \"but I daresay they\nhave driven over from the neighbourhood of Ashcombe or Coreham, and\nhave hardly calculated how soon they would get here. I wonder when\nthe Towers' party will come. Ah! there's Mr. Ashton, and Mr. Preston.\nCome, the room is beginning to fill.\"\n\nSo it was, for this was to be a very good ball, people said; and a\nlarge party from the Towers was coming, and a duchess in diamonds\namong the number. Every great house in the district was expected to\nbe full of guests on these occasions; but at this early hour, the\ntownspeople had the floor almost entirely to themselves; the county\nmagnates came dropping in later; and chiefest among them all was the\nlord-lieutenant from the Towers. But to-night they were unusually\nlate, and the aristocratic ozone being absent from the atmosphere,\nthere was a flatness about the dancing of all those who considered\nthemselves above the plebeian ranks of the tradespeople. They,\nhowever, enjoyed themselves thoroughly, and sprang and bounded\ntill their eyes sparkled and their cheeks glowed with exercise and\nexcitement. Some of the more prudent parents, mindful of the next\nday's duties, began to consider at what hour they ought to go home;\nbut with all there was an expressed or unexpressed curiosity to\nsee the duchess and her diamonds; for the Menteith diamonds were\nfamous in higher circles than that now assembled; and their fame\nhad trickled down to it through the medium of ladies'-maids and\nhousekeepers. Mr. Gibson had had to leave the ball-room for a time,\nas he had anticipated, but he was to return to his wife as soon as\nhis duties were accomplished; and, in his absence, Mrs. Gibson kept\nherself a little aloof from the Miss Brownings and those of her\nacquaintance who would willingly have entered into conversation with\nher, with the view of attaching herself to the skirts of the Towers'\nparty, when they should make their appearance. If Cynthia would not\nbe so very ready in engaging herself to every possible partner who\nasked her to dance, there were sure to be young men staying at the\nTowers who would be on the look-out for pretty girls: and who could\ntell to what a dance might lead? Molly, too, though not so good a\ndancer as Cynthia, and, from her timidity, less graceful and easy,\nwas becoming engaged pretty deeply; and, it must be confessed,\nshe was longing to dance every dance, no matter with whom. Even\nshe might not be available for the more aristocratic partners Mrs.\nGibson anticipated. She was feeling very much annoyed with the whole\nproceedings of the evening when she was aware of some one standing by\nher; and, turning a little to one side, she saw Mr. Preston keeping\nguard, as it were, over the seats which Molly and Cynthia had just\nquitted. He was looking so black that, if their eyes had not met,\nMrs. Gibson would have preferred not speaking to him; as it was, she\nthought it unavoidable.\n\n\"The rooms are not well-lighted to-night, are they, Mr. Preston?\"\n\n\"No,\" said he; \"but who could light such dingy old paint as this,\nloaded with evergreens, too, which always darken a room?\"\n\n\"And the company, too! I always think that freshness and brilliancy\nof dress go as far as anything to brighten up a room. Look what a set\nof people are here: the greater part of the women are dressed in\ndark silks, really only fit for a morning. The place will be quite\ndifferent, by-and-by, when the county families are in a little more\nforce.\"\n\nMr. Preston made no reply. He had put his glass in his eye,\napparently for the purpose of watching the dancers. If its exact\ndirection could have been ascertained, it would have been found\nthat he was looking intently and angrily at a flying figure in pink\nmuslin: many a one was gazing at Cynthia with intentness besides\nhimself, but no one in anger. Mrs. Gibson was not so fine an observer\nas to read all this; but here was a gentlemanly and handsome young\nman, to whom she could prattle, instead of either joining herself on\nto objectionable people, or sitting all forlorn until the Towers'\nparty came. So she went on with her small remarks.\n\n\"You are not dancing, Mr. Preston!\"\n\n\"No! The partner I had engaged has made some mistake. I am waiting to\nhave an explanation with her.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson was silent. An uncomfortable tide of recollections\nappeared to come over her; she, like Mr. Preston, watched Cynthia;\nthe dance was ended, and she was walking round the room in easy\nunconcern as to what might await her. Presently her partner, Mr.\nHarry Cholmley, brought her back to her seat. She took that vacant\nnext to Mr. Preston, leaving the one by her mother for Molly's\noccupation. The latter returned a moment afterwards to her place.\nCynthia seemed entirely unconscious of Mr. Preston's neighbourhood.\nMrs. Gibson leaned forwards, and said to her daughter,--\n\n\"Your last partner was a gentleman, my dear. You are improving in\nyour selection. I really was ashamed of you before, figuring away\nwith that attorney's clerk. Molly, do you know whom you have been\ndancing with? I have found out he is the Coreham bookseller.\"\n\n\"That accounts for his being so well up in all the books I've been\nwanting to hear about,\" said Molly, eagerly, but with a spice of\nmalice in her mind. \"He really was very pleasant, mamma,\" she added;\n\"and he looks quite a gentleman, and dances beautifully!\"\n\n\"Very well. But remember if you go on this way you will have to shake\nhands over the counter to-morrow morning with some of your partners\nof to-night,\" said Mrs. Gibson, coldly.\n\n\"But I really don't know how to refuse when people are introduced\nto me and ask me, and I am longing to dance. You know to-night it\nis a charity ball, and papa said everybody danced with everybody,\"\nsaid Molly, in a pleading tone of voice; for she could not quite\nthoroughly enjoy herself if she was out of harmony with any one.\nWhat reply Mrs. Gibson would have made to this speech cannot now\nbe ascertained; for, before she could answer, Mr. Preston stepped\na little forwards, and said, in a tone which he meant to be icily\nindifferent, but which trembled with anger,--\n\n\"If Miss Gibson finds any difficulty in refusing a partner, she has\nonly to apply to Miss Kirkpatrick for instructions.\"\n\nCynthia lifted up her beautiful eyes, and, fixing them on Mr.\nPreston's face, said, very quietly, as if only stating a matter of\nfact,--\n\n\"You forget, I think, Mr. Preston: Miss Gibson implied that she\nwished to dance with the person who asked her--that makes all the\ndifference. I can't instruct her how to act in that difficulty.\"\n\nAnd to the rest of this little conversation, Cynthia appeared to lend\nno ear; and she was almost directly claimed by her next partner. Mr.\nPreston took the seat now left empty much to Molly's annoyance. At\nfirst she feared lest he might be going to ask her to dance; but,\ninstead, he put out his hand for Cynthia's nosegay, which she had\nleft on rising, entrusted to Molly. It had suffered considerably from\nthe heat of the room, and was no longer full and fresh; not so much\nso as Molly's, which had not, in the first instance, been pulled to\npieces in picking out the scarlet flowers which now adorned Molly's\nhair, and which had since been cherished with more care. Enough,\nhowever, remained of Cynthia's to show very distinctly that it was\nnot the one Mr. Preston had sent; and it was perhaps to convince\nhimself of this, that he rudely asked to examine it. But Molly,\nfaithful to what she imagined would be Cynthia's wish, refused to\nallow him to touch it; she only held it a little nearer.\n\n\"Miss Kirkpatrick has not done me the honour of wearing the bouquet\nI sent her, I see. She received it, I suppose, and my note?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Molly, rather intimidated by the tone in which this was\nsaid. \"But we had already accepted these two nosegays.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson was just the person to come to the rescue with her\nhoneyed words on such an occasion as the present. She evidently was\nrather afraid of Mr. Preston, and wished to keep at peace with him.\n\n\"Oh, yes, we were so sorry! Of course, I don't mean to say we could\nbe sorry for any one's kindness; but two such lovely nosegays had\nbeen sent from Hamley Hall--you may see how beautiful from what Molly\nholds in her hand--and they had come before yours, Mr. Preston.\"\n\n\"I should have felt honoured if you had accepted of mine, since\nthe young ladies were so well provided for. I was at some pains in\nselecting the flowers at Green's; I think I may say it was rather\nmore recherché than that of Miss Kirkpatrick's, which Miss Gibson\nholds so tenderly and securely in her hand.\"\n\n\"Oh, because Cynthia would take out the most effective flowers to put\nin my hair!\" exclaimed Molly, eagerly.\n\n\"Did she?\" said Mr. Preston, with a certain accent of pleasure in his\nvoice, as though he were glad she set so little store by the nosegay;\nand he walked off to stand behind Cynthia in the quadrille that was\nbeing danced; and Molly saw him making her reply to him--against her\nwill, Molly was sure. But, somehow, his face and manner implied power\nover her. She looked grave, deaf, indifferent, indignant, defiant;\nbut, after a half-whispered speech to Cynthia, at the conclusion\nof the dance, she evidently threw him an impatient consent to what\nhe was asking, for he walked off with a disagreeable smile of\nsatisfaction on his handsome face.\n\nAll this time the murmurs were spreading at the lateness of the party\nfrom the Towers, and person after person came up to Mrs. Gibson as\nif she were the accredited authority as to the earl and countess's\nplans. In one sense this was flattering; but then the acknowledgment\nof common ignorance and wonder reduced her to the level of the\ninquirers. Mrs. Goodenough felt herself particularly aggrieved; she\nhad had her spectacles on for the last hour and a half, in order to\nbe ready for the sight the very first minute any one from the Towers\nappeared at the door.\n\n\"I had a headache,\" she complained, \"and I should have sent my money,\nand never stirred out o' doors to-night; for I've seen a many of\nthese here balls, and my lord and my lady too, when they were better\nworth looking at nor they are now; but every one was talking of the\nduchess, and the duchess and her diamonds, and I thought I shouldn't\nlike to be behindhand, and never ha' seen neither the duchess nor\nher diamonds; so I'm here, and coal and candle-light wasting away\nat home, for I told Sally to sit up for me; and, above everything,\nI cannot abide waste. I took it from my mother, who was such a one\nagainst waste as you never see now-a-days. She was a manager, if\never there was a one; and brought up nine children on less than\nany one else could do, I'll be bound. Why! she wouldn't let us be\nextravagant--not even in the matter of colds. Whenever any on us had\ngot a pretty bad cold, she took the opportunity and cut our hair; for\nshe said, said she, it was of no use having two colds when one would\ndo--and cutting of our hair was sure to give us a cold. But, for all\nthat, I wish the duchess would come.\"\n\n\"Ah! but fancy what it is to me,\" sighed out Mrs. Gibson; \"so long as\nI have been without seeing the dear family--and seeing so little of\nthem the other day when I was at the Towers (for the duchess would\nhave my opinion on Lady Alice's trousseau, and kept asking me so many\nquestions it took up all the time)--and Lady Harriet's last words\nwere a happy anticipation of our meeting to-night. It's nearly twelve\no'clock.\"\n\nEvery one of any pretensions to gentility was painfully affected by\nthe absence of the family from the Towers; the very fiddlers seemed\nunwilling to begin playing a dance that might be interrupted by the\nentrance of the great folks. Miss Phoebe Browning had apologized\nfor them--Miss Browning had blamed them with calm dignity; it was\nonly the butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers who rather\nenjoyed the absence of restraint, and were happy and hilarious.\n\nAt last, there was a rumbling, and a rushing, and a whispering, and\nthe music stopped; so the dancers were obliged to do so too; and in\ncame Lord Cumnor in his state dress, with a fat, middle-aged woman\non his arm; she was dressed almost like a girl--in a sprigged muslin,\nwith natural flowers in her hair, but not a vestige of a jewel or a\ndiamond. Yet it must be the duchess; but what was a duchess without\ndiamonds?--and in a dress which farmer Hudson's daughter might have\nworn! Was it the duchess? Could it be the duchess? The little crowd\nof inquirers around Mrs. Gibson thickened, to hear her confirm their\ndisappointing surmise. After the duchess came Lady Cumnor, looking\nlike Lady Macbeth in black velvet--a cloud upon her brow, made more\nconspicuous by the lines of age rapidly gathering on her handsome\nface; and Lady Harriet, and other ladies, amongst whom there was one\ndressed so like the duchess as to suggest the idea of a sister rather\nthan a daughter, as far as dress went. There was Lord Hollingford,\nplain in face, awkward in person, gentlemanly in manner; and\nhalf-a-dozen younger men, Lord Albert Monson, Captain James, and\nothers of their age and standing, who came in looking anything if not\ncritical. This long-expected party swept up to the seats reserved\nfor them at the head of the room, apparently regardless of the\ninterruption they caused; for the dancers stood aside, and almost\ndispersed back to their seats, and when \"Money-musk\" struck up again,\nnot half the former set of people stood up to finish the dance.\n\nLady Harriet, who was rather different to Miss Piper, and no more\nminded crossing the room alone than if the lookers-on were so many\ncabbages, spied the Gibson party pretty quickly out, and came across\nto them.\n\n\"Here we are at last. How d'ye do, dear? Why, little one\" (to Molly),\n\"how nice you're looking! Aren't we shamefully late?\"\n\n\"Oh! it's only just past twelve,\" said Mrs. Gibson; \"and I daresay\nyou dined very late.\"\n\n\"It wasn't that; it was that ill-mannered woman, who went to her own\nroom after we came out from dinner, and she and Lady Alice stayed\nthere invisible, till we thought they were putting on some splendid\nattire--as they ought to have done--and at half-past ten, when mamma\nsent up to them to say the carriages were at the door, the duchess\nsent down for some beef-tea, and at last appeared _à l'enfant_ as\nyou see her. Mamma is so angry with her, and some of the others are\nannoyed at not coming earlier, and one or two are giving themselves\nairs about coming at all. Papa is the only one who is not affected by\nit.\" Then turning to Molly Lady Harriet asked,--\n\n\"Have you been dancing much, Miss Gibson?\"\n\n\"Yes; not every dance, but nearly all.\"\n\nIt was a simple question enough; but Lady Harriet's speaking at all\nto Molly had become to Mrs. Gibson almost like shaking a red rag at\na bull; it was the one thing sure to put her out of temper. But she\nwould not have shown this to Lady Harriet for the world; only she\ncontrived to baffle any endeavours at further conversation between\nthe two, by placing herself betwixt Lady Harriet and Molly, whom the\nformer asked to sit down in the absent Cynthia's room.\n\n\"I won't go back to those people, I am so mad with them; and,\nbesides, I hardly saw you the other day, and I must have some gossip\nwith you.\" So she sat down by Mrs. Gibson, and as Mrs. Goodenough\nafterwards expressed it, \"looked like anybody else.\" Mrs. Goodenough\nsaid this to excuse herself for a little misadventure she fell into.\nShe had taken a deliberate survey of the grandees at the upper end of\nthe room, spectacles on nose, and had inquired, in no very measured\nvoice, who everybody was, from Mr. Sheepshanks, my lord's agent, and\nher very good neighbour, who in vain tried to check her loud ardour\nfor information by replying to her in whispers. But she was rather\ndeaf as well as blind, so his low tones only brought upon him fresh\ninquiries. Now, satisfied as far as she could be, and on her way\nto departure, and the extinguishing of fire and candle-light, she\nstopped opposite to Mrs. Gibson, and thus addressed her by way of\nrenewal of their former subject of conversation:--\n\n\"Such a shabby thing for a duchess I never saw; not a bit of a\ndiamond near her! They're none of 'em worth looking at except the\ncountess, and she's always a personable woman, and not so lusty\nas she was. But they're not worth waiting up for till this time o'\nnight.\"\n\nThere was a moment's pause. Then Lady Harriet put her hand out, and\nsaid,--\n\n\"You don't remember me, but I know you from having seen you at the\nTowers. Lady Cumnor is a good deal thinner than she was, but we hope\nher health is better for it.\"\n\n\"It's Lady Harriet,\" said Mrs. Gibson to Mrs. Goodenough, in\nreproachful dismay.\n\n\"Deary me, your ladyship! I hope I've given no offence! But, you\nsee--that is to say, your ladyship sees, that it's late hours for\nsuch folks as me, and I only stayed out of my bed to see the duchess,\nand I thought she'd come in diamonds and a coronet; and it puts one\nout at my age, to be disappointed in the only chance I'm like to have\nof so fine a sight.\"\n\n\"I'm put out too,\" said Lady Harriet. \"I wanted to have come early,\nand here we are as late as this. I'm so cross and ill-tempered, I\nshould be glad to hide myself in bed as soon as you will do.\"\n\nShe said this so sweetly that Mrs. Goodenough relaxed into a smile,\nand her crabbedness into a compliment.\n\n\"I don't believe as ever your ladyship can be cross and ill-tempered\nwith that pretty face. I'm an old woman, so you must let me say so.\"\nLady Harriet stood up, and made a low curtsey. Then holding out her\nhand, she said,--\n\n\"I won't keep you up any longer; but I'll promise one thing in return\nfor your pretty speech: if ever I am a duchess, I'll come and show\nmyself to you in all my robes and gewgaws. Good night, madam!\"\n\n\"There! I knew how it would be!\" said she, not resuming her seat.\n\"And on the eve of a county election too.\"\n\n\"Oh! you must not take old Mrs. Goodenough as a specimen, dear Lady\nHarriet. She is always a grumbler! I am sure no one else would\ncomplain of your all being as late as you liked,\" said Mrs. Gibson.\n\n\"What do you say, Molly?\" said Lady Harriet, suddenly turning her\neyes on Molly's face. \"Don't you think we've lost some of our\npopularity,--which at this time means votes--by coming so late. Come,\nanswer me! you used to be a famous little truth-teller.\"\n\n\"I don't know about popularity or votes,\" said Molly, rather\nunwillingly. \"But I think many people were sorry you did not come\nsooner; and isn't that rather a proof of popularity?\" she added.\n\n\"That's a very neat and diplomatic answer,\" said Lady Harriet,\nsmiling, and tapping Molly's cheek with her fan.\n\n\"Molly knows nothing about it,\" said Mrs. Gibson, a little off\nher guard. \"It would be very impertinent if she or any one else\nquestioned Lady Cumnor's perfect right to come when she chose.\"\n\n\"Well, all I know is, I must go back to mamma now; but I shall make\nanother raid into these regions by-and-by, and you must keep a place\nfor me. Ah! there are--Miss Brownings; you see I don't forget my\nlesson, Miss Gibson.\"\n\n\"Molly, I cannot have you speaking so to Lady Harriet,\" said Mrs.\nGibson, as soon as she was left alone with her stepdaughter. \"You\nwould never have known her at all if it had not been for me, and\ndon't be always putting yourself into our conversation.\"\n\n\"But I must speak if she asks me questions,\" pleaded Molly.\n\n\"Well! if you must, you must, I acknowledge. I'm candid about that at\nany rate. But there's no need for you to set up to have an opinion at\nyour age.\"\n\n\"I don't know how to help it,\" said Molly.\n\n\"She's such a whimsical person; look there, if she's not talking to\nMiss Phoebe; and Miss Phoebe is so weak she'll be easily led away\ninto fancying she is hand and glove with Lady Harriet. If there is\none thing I hate more than another, it is the trying to make out an\nintimacy with great people.\"\n\nMolly felt innocent enough, so she offered no justification of\nherself, and made no reply. Indeed she was more occupied in watching\nCynthia. She could not understand the change that seemed to have come\nover her. She was dancing, it was true, with the same lightness and\ngrace as before, but the smooth bounding motion, as of a feather\nblown onwards by the wind, was gone. She was conversing with her\npartner, but without the soft animation that usually shone out upon\nher countenance. And when she was brought back to her seat Molly\nnoticed her changed colour, and her dreamily abstracted eyes.\n\n\"What is the matter, Cynthia?\" asked she, in a very low voice.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Cynthia, suddenly looking up, and in an accent of\nwhat, in her, was sharpness. \"Why should there be?\"\n\n\"I don't know; but you look different to what you did--tired or\nsomething.\"\n\n\"There's nothing the matter, or, if there is, don't talk about it.\nIt's all your fancy.\"\n\nThis was a rather contradictory speech, to be interpreted by\nintuition rather than by logic. Molly understood that Cynthia wished\nfor quietness and silence. But what was her surprise, after the\nspeeches that had passed before, and the implication of Cynthia's\nwhole manner to Mr. Preston, to see him come up to her, and, without\na word, offer his arm and lead her away to dance. It appeared to\nstrike Mrs. Gibson as something remarkable; for, forgetting her late\npassage at arms with Molly, she asked, wonderingly, as if almost\ndistrusting the evidence of her senses,--\n\n\"Is Cynthia going to dance with Mr. Preston?\"\n\nMolly had scarcely time to answer before she herself was led off by\nher partner. She could hardly attend to him or to the figures of the\nquadrille for watching for Cynthia among the moving forms.\n\nOnce she caught a glimpse of her standing still--downcast--listening\nto Mr. Preston's eager speech. Again she was walking languidly among\nthe dancers, almost as if she took no notice of those around her.\nWhen she and Molly joined each other again, the shade on Cynthia's\nface had deepened to gloom. But, at the same time, if a physiognomist\nhad studied her expression, he would have read in it defiance and\nanger, and perhaps also a little perplexity. While this quadrille had\nbeen going on, Lady Harriet had been speaking to her brother.\n\n\"Hollingford!\" she said, laying her hand on his arm, and drawing him\na little apart from the well-born crowd amid which he stood, silent\nand abstracted, \"you don't know how these good people here have been\nhurt and disappointed with our being so late, and with the duchess's\nridiculous simplicity of dress.\"\n\n\"Why should they mind it?\" asked he, taking advantage of her being\nout of breath with eagerness.\n\n\"Oh, don't be so wise and stupid; don't you see, we're a show and a\nspectacle--it's like having a pantomime with harlequin and columbine\nin plain clothes.\"\n\n\"I don't understand how--\" he began.\n\n\"Then take it upon trust. They really are a little disappointed,\nwhether they are logical or not in being so, and we must try and make\nit up to them; for one thing, because I can't bear our vassals to\nlook dissatisfied and disloyal, and then there's the election in\nJune.\"\n\n\"I really would as soon be out of the House as in it.\"\n\n\"Nonsense; it would grieve papa beyond measure--but there's no\ntime to talk about that now. You must go and dance with some of\nthe townspeople, and I'll ask Sheepshanks to introduce me to a\nrespectable young farmer. Can't you get Captain James to make himself\nuseful? There he goes with Lady Alice! If I don't get him introduced\nto the ugliest tailor's daughter I can find for the next dance!\" She\nput her arm in her brother's as she spoke, as if to lead him to some\npartner. He resisted, however--resisted piteously.\n\n\"Pray don't, Harriet. You know I can't dance. I hate it; I always\ndid. I don't know how to get through a quadrille.\"\n\n\"It's a country dance!\" said she, resolutely.\n\n\"It's all the same. And what shall I say to my partner? I haven't\na notion: I shall have no subject in common. Speak of being\ndisappointed, they'll be ten times more disappointed when they find I\ncan neither dance nor talk!\"\n\n\"I'll be merciful; don't be so cowardly. In their eyes a lord may\ndance like a bear--as some lords not very far from me are--if he\nlikes, and they'll take it for grace. And you shall begin with Molly\nGibson, your friend the doctor's daughter. She's a good, simple,\nintelligent little girl, which you'll think a great deal more of, I\nsuppose, than of the frivolous fact of her being very pretty. Clare!\nwill you allow me to introduce my brother to Miss Gibson? he hopes to\nengage her for this dance. Lord Hollingford, Miss Gibson!\"\n\nPoor Lord Hollingford! there was nothing for it but for him to follow\nhis sister's very explicit lead, and Molly and he walked off to their\nplaces, each heartily wishing their dance together well over. Lady\nHarriet flew off to Mr. Sheepshanks to secure her respectable young\nfarmer, and Mrs. Gibson remained alone, wishing that Lady Cumnor\nwould send one of her attendant gentlemen for her. It would be so\nmuch more agreeable to be sitting even at the fag-end of nobility\nthan here on a bench with everybody; hoping that everybody would see\nMolly dancing away with a lord, yet vexed that the chance had so\nbefallen that Molly instead of Cynthia was the young lady singled\nout; wondering if simplicity of dress was now become the highest\nfashion, and pondering on the possibility of cleverly inducing\nLady Harriet to introduce Lord Albert Monson to her own beautiful\ndaughter, Cynthia.\n\nMolly found Lord Hollingford, the wise and learned Lord Hollingford,\nstrangely stupid in understanding the mystery of \"Cross hands and\nback again, down the middle and up again.\" He was constantly getting\nhold of the wrong hands, and as constantly stopping when he had\nreturned to his place, quite unaware that the duties of society and\nthe laws of the dance required that he should go on capering till\nhe had arrived at the bottom of the room. He perceived that he had\nperformed his part very badly, and apologized to Molly when once they\nhad arrived at that haven of comparative peace; and he expressed his\nregret so simply and heartily that she felt at her ease with him at\nonce, especially when he confided to her his reluctance at having to\ndance at all, and his only doing it under his sister's compulsion.\nTo Molly he was an elderly widower, almost as old as her father,\nand by-and-by they got into very pleasant conversation. She learnt\nfrom him that Roger Hamley had just been publishing a paper in some\nscientific periodical, which had excited considerable attention,\nas it was intended to confute some theory of a great French\nphysiologist, and Roger's article proved the writer to be possessed\nof a most unusual amount of knowledge on the subject. This piece\nof news was of great interest to Molly; and, in her questions, she\nherself evinced so much intelligence, and a mind so well prepared for\nthe reception of information, that Lord Hollingford at any rate would\nhave felt his quest of popularity a very easy affair indeed, if he\nmight have gone on talking quietly to Molly during the rest of the\nevening. When he took her back to her place, he found Mr. Gibson\nthere, and fell into talk with him, until Lady Harriet once more came\nto stir him up to his duties. Before very long, however, he returned\nto Mr. Gibson's side, and began telling him of this paper of Roger\nHamley's, of which Mr. Gibson had not yet heard. In the midst\nof their conversation, as they stood close by Mrs. Gibson, Lord\nHollingford saw Molly in the distance, and interrupted himself to\nsay, \"What a charming little lady that daughter of yours is! Most\ngirls of her age are so difficult to talk to; but she is intelligent\nand full of interest in all sorts of sensible things; well read,\ntoo--she was up in _Le Règne Animal_--and very pretty!\"\n\nMr. Gibson bowed, much pleased at such a compliment from such a man,\nwere he lord or not. It is very likely that if Molly had been a\nstupid listener, Lord Hollingford would not have discovered her\nbeauty; or the converse might be asserted--if she had not been young\nand pretty, he would not have exerted himself to talk on scientific\nsubjects in a manner which she could understand. But in whatever way\nMolly had won his approbation and admiration, there was no doubt that\nshe had earned it somehow. And, when she next returned to her place,\nMrs. Gibson greeted her with soft words and a gracious smile; for\nit does not require much reasoning power to discover, that if it\nis a very fine thing to be mother-in-law to a very magnificent\nthree-tailed bashaw, it presupposes that the wife who makes the\nconnection between the two parties is in harmony with her mother. And\nso far had Mrs. Gibson's thoughts wandered into futurity. She only\nwished that the happy chance had fallen to Cynthia's instead of to\nMolly's lot. But Molly was a docile, sweet creature, very pretty,\nand remarkably intelligent, as my lord had said. It was a pity that\nCynthia preferred making millinery to reading; but perhaps that could\nbe rectified. And there was Lord Cumnor coming to speak to her, and\nLady Cumnor nodding to her, and indicating a place by her side.\n\nIt was not an unsatisfactory ball upon the whole to Mrs. Gibson,\nalthough she paid the usual penalty for sitting up beyond her\nordinary hour in perpetual glare and movement. The next morning\nshe awoke irritable and fatigued; and a little of the same feeling\noppressed both Cynthia and Molly. The former was lounging in the\nwindow-seat, holding a three-days'-old newspaper in her hand, which\nshe was making a pretence of reading, when she was startled by her\nmother's saying,--\n\n\"Cynthia! can't you take up a book and improve yourself? I am sure\nyour conversation will never be worth listening to, unless you read\nsomething better than newspapers. Why don't you keep up your French?\nThere was some French book that Molly was reading--_Le Règne Animal_,\nI think.\"\n\n\"No! I never read it!\" said Molly, blushing. \"Mr. Roger Hamley\nsometimes read pieces out of it when I was first at the Hall, and\ntold me what it was about.\"\n\n\"Oh! well. Then I suppose I was mistaken. But it comes to all the\nsame thing. Cynthia, you really must learn to settle yourself to some\nimproving reading every morning.\"\n\nRather to Molly's surprise, Cynthia did not reply a word; but\ndutifully went and brought down from among her Boulogne school-books,\n_Le Siècle de Louis XIV_. But after a while, Molly saw that this\n\"improving reading\" was just as much a mere excuse for Cynthia's\nthinking her own thoughts as the newspaper had been.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nFATHER AND SONS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nThings were not going on any better at Hamley Hall. Nothing had\noccurred to change the state of dissatisfied feeling into which the\nSquire and his eldest son had respectively fallen; and the long\ncontinuance merely of dissatisfaction is sure of itself to deepen\nthe feeling. Roger did all in his power to bring the father and son\ntogether; but sometimes wondered if it would not have been better to\nleave them alone; for they were falling into the habit of each making\nhim their confidant, and so defining emotions and opinions which\nwould have had less distinctness if they had been unexpressed. There\nwas little enough relief in the daily life at the Hall to help them\nall to shake off the gloom; and it even told on the health of both\nthe Squire and Osborne. The Squire became thinner, his skin as well\nas his clothes began to hang loose about him, and the freshness\nof his colour turned to red streaks, till his cheeks looked like\nEardiston pippins, instead of resembling \"a Katherine pear on the\nside that's next the sun.\" Roger thought that his father sate indoors\nand smoked in his study more than was good for him, but it had\nbecome difficult to get him far afield; he was too much afraid of\ncoming across some sign of the discontinued drainage works, or being\nirritated afresh by the sight of his depreciated timber. Osborne was\nwrapt up in the idea of arranging his poems for the press, and so\nworking out his wish for independence. What with daily writing to\nhis wife--taking his letters himself to a distant post-office, and\nreceiving hers there--touching up his sonnets, &c., with fastidious\ncare--and occasionally giving himself the pleasure of a visit to the\nGibsons, and enjoying the society of the two pleasant girls there,\nhe found little time for being with his father. Indeed, Osborne was\ntoo self-indulgent or \"sensitive,\" as he termed it, to bear well\nwith the Squire's gloomy fits, or too frequent querulousness. The\nconsciousness of his secret, too, made Osborne uncomfortable in his\nfather's presence. It was very well for all parties that Roger was\nnot \"sensitive,\" for, if he had been, there were times when it would\nhave been hard to bear little spurts of domestic tyranny, by which\nhis father strove to assert his power over both his sons. One of\nthese occurred very soon after the night of the Hollingford\ncharity-ball.\n\nRoger had induced his father to come out with him; and the Squire\nhad, on his son's suggestion, taken with him his long unused spud.\nThe two had wandered far afield; perhaps the elder man had found the\nunwonted length of exercise too much for him; for, as he approached\nthe house, on his return, he became what nurses call in children\n\"fractious,\" and ready to turn on his companion for every remark he\nmade. Roger understood the case by instinct, as it were, and bore it\nall with his usual sweetness of temper. They entered the house by\nthe front door; it lay straight on their line of march. On the old\ncracked yellow-marble slab, there lay a card with Lord Hollingford's\nname on it, which Robinson, evidently on the watch for their return,\nhastened out of his pantry to deliver to Roger.\n\n\"His lordship was very sorry not to see you, Mr. Roger, and his\nlordship left a note for you. Mr. Osborne took it, I think, when\nhe passed through. I asked his lordship if he would like to see Mr.\nOsborne, who was indoors, as I thought. But his lordship said he was\npressed for time, and told me to make his excuses.\"\n\n\"Didn't he ask for me?\" growled the Squire.\n\n\"No, sir; I can't say as his lordship did. He would never have\nthought of Mr. Osborne, sir, if I hadn't named him. It was Mr. Roger\nhe seemed so keen after.\"\n\n\"Very odd,\" said the Squire. Roger said nothing, although he\nnaturally felt some curiosity. He went into the drawing-room, not\nquite aware that his father was following him. Osborne sate at a\ntable near the fire, pen in hand, looking over one of his poems, and\ndotting the _i_'s, crossing the _t_'s, and now and then pausing over\nthe alteration of a word.\n\n\"Oh, Roger!\" he said, as his brother came in, \"here's been Lord\nHollingford wanting to see you.\"\n\n\"I know,\" replied Roger.\n\n\"And he's left a note for you. Robinson tried to persuade him it was\nfor my father, so he's added a 'junior' (Roger Hamley, Esq., junior)\nin pencil.\" The Squire was in the room by this time, and what he had\noverheard rubbed him up still more the wrong way. Roger took his\nunopened note and read it.\n\n\"What does he say?\" asked the Squire.\n\nRoger handed him the note. It contained an invitation to dinner to\nmeet M. Geoffroi St. H----, whose views on certain subjects Roger had\nbeen advocating in the article Lord Hollingford had spoken about to\nMolly, when he danced with her at the Hollingford ball. M. Geoffroi\nSt. H---- was in England now, and was expected to pay a visit at\nthe Towers in the course of the following week. He had expressed a\nwish to meet the author of the paper which had already attracted the\nattention of the French comparative anatomists; and Lord Hollingford\nadded a few words as to his own desire to make the acquaintance of a\nneighbour whose tastes were so similar to his own; and then followed\na civil message from Lord and Lady Cumnor.\n\nLord Hollingford's hand was cramped and rather illegible. The squire\ncould not read it all at once, and was enough put out to decline any\nassistance in deciphering it. At last he made it out.\n\n\"So my lord lieutenant is taking some notice of the Hamleys at last.\nThe election is coming on, is it? But I can tell him we're not to be\ngot so easily. I suppose this trap is set for you, Osborne? What's\nthis you've been writing that the French mounseer is so taken with?\"\n\n\"It is not me, sir!\" said Osborne. \"Both note and call are for\nRoger.\"\n\n\"I don't understand it,\" said the Squire. \"These Whig fellows have\nnever done their duty by me; not that I want it of them. The Duke\nof Debenham used to pay the Hamleys a respect due to 'em--the\noldest landowners in the county--but since he died, and this\nshabby Whig lord has succeeded him, I've never dined at the lord\nlieutenant's--no, not once.\"\n\n\"But I think, sir, I've heard you say Lord Cumnor used to invite\nyou,--only you did not choose to go,\" said Roger.\n\n\"Yes. What d'ye mean by that? Do you suppose I was going to desert\nthe principles of my family, and curry favour with the Whigs? No!\nleave that to them. They can ask the heir of the Hamleys fast enough\nwhen a county election is coming on.\"\n\n\"I tell you, sir,\" said Osborne, in the irritable tone he sometimes\nused when his father was particularly unreasonable, \"it is not me\nLord Hollingford is inviting; it is Roger. Roger is making himself\nknown for what he is, a first-rate fellow,\" continued Osborne--a\nsting of self-reproach mingling with his generous pride in his\nbrother--\"and he's getting himself a name; he's been writing\nabout these new French theories and discoveries, and this foreign\n_savant_ very naturally wants to make his acquaintance, and so Lord\nHollingford asks him to dine. It's as clear as can be,\" lowering his\ntone, and addressing himself to Roger; \"it has nothing to do with\npolitics, if my father would but see it.\"\n\nOf course the Squire heard this little aside with the unlucky\nuncertainty of hearing which is a characteristic of the beginning\nof deafness; and its effect on him was perceptible in the increased\nacrimony of his next speech.\n\n\"You young men think you know everything. I tell you it's a palpable\nWhig trick. And what business has Roger--if it is Roger the man\nwants--to go currying favour with the French? In my day we were\ncontent to hate 'em and to lick 'em. But it's just like your conceit,\nOsborne, setting yourself up to say it's your younger brother they're\nasking, and not you; I tell you it's you. They think the eldest son\nwas sure to be called after his father, Roger--Roger Hamley, junior.\nIt's as plain as a pike-staff. They know they can't catch me with\nchaff, but they've got up this French dodge. What business had you to\ngo writing about the French, Roger? I should have thought you were\ntoo sensible to take any notice of their fancies and theories; but if\nit is you they've asked, I'll not have you going and meeting these\nforeigners at a Whig house. They ought to have asked Osborne. He's\nthe representative of the Hamleys, if I'm not; and they can't get me,\nlet 'em try ever so. Besides, Osborne has got a bit of the mounseer\nabout him, which he caught with being so fond of going off to the\nContinent, instead of coming back to his good old English home.\"\n\nHe went on repeating much of what he had said before, till he\nleft the room. Osborne had kept on replying to his unreasonable\ngrumblings, which had only added to his anger; and as soon as the\nSquire was fairly gone, Osborne turned to Roger, and said,--\n\n\"Of course you'll go, Roger? ten to one he'll be in another mind\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Roger, bluntly enough--for he was extremely disappointed;\n\"I won't run the chance of vexing him. I shall refuse.\"\n\n\"Don't be such a fool!\" exclaimed Osborne. \"Really, my father is too\nunreasonable. You heard how he kept contradicting himself; and such a\nman as you to be kept under like a child by--\"\n\n\"Don't let us talk any more about it, Osborne,\" said Roger, writing\naway fast. When the note was written, and sent off, he came and put\nhis hand caressingly on Osborne's shoulder, as he sate pretending\nto read, but in reality vexed with both his father and his brother,\nthough on very different grounds.\n\n\"How go the poems, old fellow? I hope they're nearly ready to bring\nout.\"\n\n\"No, they're not; and if it weren't for the money, I shouldn't care\nif they were never published. What's the use of fame, if one mayn't\nreap the fruits of it?\"\n\n\"Come, now, we'll have no more of that; let's talk about the money.\nI shall be going up for my Fellowship examination next week, and then\nwe'll have a purse in common, for they'll never think of not giving\nme a Fellowship now I'm senior wrangler. I'm short enough myself at\npresent, and I don't like to bother my father; but when I'm Fellow,\nyou shall take me down to Winchester, and introduce me to the little\nwife.\"\n\n\"It will be a month next Monday since I left her,\" said Osborne,\nlaying down his papers and gazing into the fire, as if by so doing he\ncould call up her image. \"In her letter this morning she bids me give\nyou such a pretty message. It won't bear translating into English;\nyou must read it for yourself,\" continued he, pointing out a line or\ntwo in a letter he drew from his pocket.\n\nRoger suspected that one or two of the words were wrongly spelt;\nbut their purport was so gentle and loving, and had such a touch of\nsimple, respectful gratitude in them, that he could not help being\ndrawn afresh to the little unseen sister-in-law, whose acquaintance\nOsborne had made by helping her to look for some missing article of\nthe children's, whom she was taking for their daily walk in Hyde\nPark. For Mrs. Osborne Hamley had been nothing more than a French\n_bonne_, very pretty, very graceful, and very much tyrannized over\nby the rough little boys and girls she had in charge. She was a\nlittle orphan girl, who had charmed the heads of a travelling English\nfamily, as she had brought madame some articles of lingerie at an\nhotel; and she had been hastily engaged by them as _bonne_ to their\nchildren, partly as a pet and plaything herself, partly because it\nwould be so good for the children to learn French from a native\n(of Alsace!). By-and-by her mistress ceased to take any particular\nnotice of Aimée in the bustle of London and London gaiety; but though\nfeeling more and more forlorn in a strange land every day, the French\ngirl strove hard to do her duty. One touch of kindness, however, was\nenough to set the fountain gushing; and she and Osborne naturally\nfell into an ideal state of love, to be rudely disturbed by the\nindignation of the mother, when accident discovered to her the\nattachment existing between her children's _bonne_ and a young man\nof an entirely different class. Aimée answered truly to all her\nmistress's questions; but no worldly wisdom, nor any lesson to be\nlearnt from another's experience, could in the least disturb her\nentire faith in her lover. Perhaps Mrs. Townshend did no more than\nher duty in immediately sending Aimée back to Metz, where she had\nfirst met with her, and where such relations as remained to the girl\nmight be supposed to be residing. But, altogether, she knew so little\nof the kind of people or life to which she was consigning her deposed\nprotégée that Osborne, after listening with impatient indignation to\nthe lecture which Mrs. Townshend gave him when he insisted on seeing\nher in order to learn what had become of his love, that the young man\nset off straight for Metz in hot haste, and did not let the grass\ngrow under his feet until he had made Aimée his wife. All this had\noccurred the previous autumn, and Roger did not know of the step his\nbrother had taken until it was irrevocable. Then came the mother's\ndeath, which, besides the simplicity of its own overwhelming sorrow,\nbrought with it the loss of the kind, tender mediatrix, who could\nalways soften and turn his father's heart. It is doubtful, however,\nif even she could have succeeded in this, for the Squire looked high,\nand over high, for the wife of his heir; he detested all foreigners,\nand overmore held all Roman Catholics in dread and abomination\nsomething akin to our ancestors' hatred of witchcraft. All these\nprejudices were strengthened by his grief. Argument would always have\nglanced harmless away off his shield of utter unreason; but a loving\nimpulse, in a happy moment, might have softened his heart to what he\nmost detested in the former days. But the happy moments came not now,\nand the loving impulses were trodden down by the bitterness of his\nfrequent remorse, not less than by his growing irritability; so Aimée\nlived solitary in the little cottage near Winchester in which Osborne\nhad installed her when she first came to England as his wife, and\nin the dainty furnishing of which he had run himself so deeply into\ndebt. For Osborne consulted his own fastidious taste in his purchases\nrather than her simple childlike wishes and wants, and looked upon\nthe little Frenchwoman rather as the future mistress of Hamley Hall\nthan as the wife of a man who was wholly dependent on others at\npresent. He had chosen a southern county as being far removed from\nthose midland shires where the name of Hamley of Hamley was well and\nwidely known; for he did not wish his wife to assume, if only for a\ntime, a name which was not justly and legally her own. In all these\narrangements he had willingly striven to do his full duty by her; and\nshe repaid him with passionate devotion and admiring reverence. If\nhis vanity had met with a check, or his worthy desires for college\nhonours had been disappointed, he knew where to go for a comforter;\none who poured out praise till her words were choked in her throat by\nthe rapidity of her thoughts, and who poured out the small vials of\nher indignation on every one who did not acknowledge and bow down to\nher husband's merits. If she ever wished to go to the château--that\nwas his home--and to be introduced to his family, Aimée never hinted\na word of it to him. Only she did yearn, and she did plead, for a\nlittle more of her husband's company; and the good reasons which had\nconvinced her of the necessity of his being so much away when he was\npresent to urge them, failed in their efficacy when she tried to\nreproduce them to herself in his absence.\n\nThe afternoon of the day on which Lord Hollingford called Roger\nwas going upstairs, three steps at a time, when, at a turn on the\nlanding, he encountered his father. It was the first time he had seen\nhim since their conversation about the Towers' invitation to dinner.\nThe Squire stopped his son by standing right in the middle of the\npassage.\n\n\"Thou'rt going to meet the mounseer, my lad?\" said he, half as\naffirmation, half as question.\n\n\"No, sir; I sent off James almost immediately with a note declining\nit. I don't care about it--that's to say, not to signify.\"\n\n\"Why did you take me up so sharp, Roger?\" said his father pettishly.\n\"You all take me up so hastily now-a-days. I think it's hard when a\nman mustn't be allowed a bit of crossness when he's tired and heavy\nat heart--that I do.\"\n\n\"But, father, I should never like to go to a house where they had\nslighted you.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, lad,\" said the Squire, brightening up a little; \"I think\nI slighted them. They asked me to dinner, after my lord was made\nlieutenant, time after time, but I never would go near 'em. I call\nthat my slighting them.\"\n\nAnd no more was said at the time; but the next day the Squire again\nstopped Roger.\n\n\"I've been making Jem try on his livery-coat that he hasn't worn this\nthree or four years,--he's got too stout for it now.\"\n\n\"Well, he needn't wear it, need he? and Morgan's lad will be glad\nenough of it,--he's sadly in want of clothes.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay; but who's to go with you when you call at the Towers? It's\nbut polite to call after Lord What's-his-name has taken the trouble\nto come here; and I shouldn't like you to go without a groom.\"\n\n\"My dear father! I shouldn't know what to do with a man riding at my\nback. I can find my way to the stable-yard for myself, or there'll be\nsome man about to take my horse. Don't trouble yourself about that.\"\n\n\"Well, you're not Osborne, to be sure. Perhaps it won't strike 'em\nas strange for you. But you must look up, and hold your own, and\nremember you're one of the Hamleys, who've been on the same land for\nhundreds of years, while they're but trumpery Whig folk who only came\ninto the county in Queen Anne's time.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nRIVALRY.\n\n\nFor some days after the ball Cynthia seemed languid, and was very\nsilent. Molly, who had promised herself fully as much enjoyment in\ntalking over the past gaiety with Cynthia as in the evening itself,\nwas disappointed when she found that all conversation on the subject\nwas rather evaded than encouraged. Mrs. Gibson, it is true, was ready\nto go over the ground as many times as any one liked; but her words\nwere always like ready-made clothes, and never fitted individual\nthoughts. Anybody might have used them, and, with a change of proper\nnames, they might have served to describe any ball. She repeatedly\nused the same language in speaking about it, till Molly knew the\nsentences and their sequence even to irritation.\n\n\"Ah! Mr. Osborne, you should have been there! I said to myself many a\ntime how you really should have been there--you and your brother, of\ncourse.\"\n\n\"I thought of you very often during the evening!\"\n\n\"Did you? Now that I call very kind of you. Cynthia, darling! Do you\nhear what Mr. Osborne Hamley was saying?\" as Cynthia came into the\nroom just then. \"He thought of us all on the evening of the ball.\"\n\n\"He did better than merely remember us then,\" said Cynthia, with her\nsoft slow smile. \"We owe him thanks for those beautiful flowers,\nmamma.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Osborne, \"you must not thank me exclusively. I believe it\nwas my thought, but Roger took all the trouble of it.\"\n\n\"I consider the thought as everything,\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"Thought is\nspiritual, while action is merely material.\"\n\nThis fine sentence took the speaker herself by surprise; and in such\nconversation as was then going on, it is not necessary to accurately\ndefine the meaning of everything that is said.\n\n\"I'm afraid the flowers were too late to be of much use, though,\"\ncontinued Osborne. \"I met Preston the next morning, and of course we\ntalked about the ball. I was sorry to find he had been beforehand\nwith us.\"\n\n\"He only sent one nosegay, and that was for Cynthia,\" said Molly,\nlooking up from her work. \"And it did not come till after we had\nreceived the flowers from Hamley.\" Molly caught a sight of Cynthia's\nface before she bent down again to her sewing. It was scarlet in\ncolour, and there was a flash of anger in her eyes. Both she and her\nmother hastened to speak as soon as Molly had finished, but Cynthia's\nvoice was choked with passion, and Mrs. Gibson had the word.\n\n\"Mr. Preston's bouquet was just one of those formal affairs any one\ncan buy at a nursery-garden, which always strike me as having no\nsentiment in them. I would far rather have two or three lilies of the\nvalley gathered for me by a person I like, than the most expensive\nbouquet that could be bought!\"\n\n\"Mr. Preston had no business to speak as if he had forestalled you,\"\nsaid Cynthia. \"It came just as we were ready to go, and I put it into\nthe fire directly.\"\n\n\"Cynthia, my dear love!\" said Mrs. Gibson (who had never heard of the\nfate of the flowers until now), \"what an idea of yourself you will\ngive to Mr. Osborne Hamley; but, to be sure, I can quite understand\nit. You inherit my feeling--my prejudice--sentimental I grant,\nagainst bought flowers.\"\n\nCynthia was silent for a moment; then she said, \"I used some of\nyour flowers, Mr. Hamley, to dress Molly's hair. It was a great\ntemptation, for the colour so exactly matched her coral ornaments;\nbut I believe she thought it treacherous to disturb the arrangement,\nso I ought to take all the blame on myself.\"\n\n\"The arrangement was my brother's, as I told you; but I am sure he\nwould have preferred seeing them in Miss Gibson's hair rather than\nin the blazing fire. Mr. Preston comes far the worst off.\" Osborne\nwas rather amused at the whole affair, and would have liked to probe\nCynthia's motives a little farther. He did not hear Molly saying in\nas soft a voice as if she were talking to herself, \"I wore mine just\nas they were sent,\" for Mrs. Gibson came in with a total change of\nsubject.\n\n\"Speaking of lilies of the valley, is it true that they grow wild\nin Hurst Wood? It is not the season for them to be in flower yet;\nbut when it is, I think we must take a walk there--with our luncheon\nin a basket--a little picnic in fact. You'll join us, won't you?\"\nturning to Osborne. \"I think it's a charming plan! You could ride to\nHollingford and put up your horse here, and we could have a long day\nin the woods and all come home to dinner--dinner with a basket of\nlilies in the middle of the table!\"\n\n\"I should like it very much,\" said Osborne; \"but I may not be at\nhome. Roger is more likely to be here, I believe, at that time--a\nmonth hence.\" He was thinking of the visit to London to sell\nhis poems, and the run down to Winchester which he anticipated\nafterwards--the end of May had been the period fixed for this\npleasure for some time, not merely in his own mind, but in writing to\nhis wife.\n\n\"Oh, but you must be with us! We must wait for Mr. Osborne Hamley,\nmust not we, Cynthia?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid the lilies won't wait,\" replied Cynthia.\n\n\"Well, then, we must put it off till dog-rose and honey-suckle time.\nYou will be at home then, won't you? or does the London season\npresent too many attractions?\"\n\n\"I don't exactly know when dog-roses are in flower!\"\n\n\"Not know, and you a poet? Don't you remember the lines--\n\n   It was the time of roses,\n   We plucked them as we passed?\"\n\n\"Yes; but that doesn't specify the time of year that is the time\nof roses; and I believe my movements are guided more by the lunar\ncalendar than the floral. You had better take my brother for your\ncompanion; he is practical in his love of flowers, I am only\ntheoretical.\"\n\n\"Does that fine word 'theoretical' imply that you are ignorant?\"\nasked Cynthia.\n\n\"Of course we shall be happy to see your brother; but why can't we\nhave you too? I confess to a little timidity in the presence of one\nso deep and learned as your brother is from all accounts. Give me a\nlittle charming ignorance, if we must call it by that hard word.\"\n\nOsborne bowed. It was very pleasant to him to be petted and\nflattered, even though he knew all the time that it was only\nflattery. It was an agreeable contrast to the home that was so dismal\nto him, to come to this house, where the society of two agreeable\ngirls, and the soothing syrup of their mother's speeches, awaited\nhim whenever he liked to come. To say nothing of the difference that\nstruck upon his senses, poetical though he might esteem himself, of a\nsitting-room full of flowers, and tokens of women's presence, where\nall the chairs were easy, and all the tables well covered with pretty\nthings, to the great drawing-room at home, where the draperies were\nthreadbare, and the seats uncomfortable, and no sign of feminine\npresence ever now lent a grace to the stiff arrangement of the\nfurniture. Then the meals, light and well-cooked, suited his taste\nand delicate appetite so much better than the rich and heavy viands\nprepared by the servants at the Hall. Osborne was becoming a little\nafraid of falling into the habit of paying too frequent visits to\nthe Gibsons (and that, not because he feared the consequences of\nhis intercourse with the two young ladies; for he never thought of\nthem excepting as friends;--the fact of his marriage was constantly\npresent to his mind, and Aimée too securely enthroned in his heart,\nfor him to remember that he might be looked upon by others in the\nlight of a possible husband); but the reflection forced itself\nupon him occasionally, whether he was not trespassing too often on\nhospitality which he had at present no means of returning.\n\nBut Mrs. Gibson, in her ignorance of the true state of affairs, was\nsecretly exultant in the attraction which made him come so often\nand lounge away the hours in her house and garden. She had no doubt\nthat it was Cynthia who drew him thither; and if the latter had been\na little more amenable to reason, her mother would have made more\nfrequent allusions than she did to the crisis which she thought was\napproaching. But she was restrained by the intuitive conviction that\nif her daughter became conscious of what was impending, and was made\naware of Mrs. Gibson's cautious and quiet efforts to forward the\ncatastrophe, the wilful girl would oppose herself to it with all\nher skill and power. As it was, Mrs. Gibson trusted that Cynthia's\naffections would become engaged before she knew where she was, and\nthat in that case she would not attempt to frustrate her mother's\ndelicate scheming, even though she did perceive it. But Cynthia had\ncome across too many varieties of flirtation, admiration, and even\npassionate love, to be for a moment at fault as to the quiet friendly\nnature of Osborne's attentions. She received him always as a sister\nmight a brother. It was different when Roger returned from his\nelection as Fellow of Trinity. The trembling diffidence, the hardly\nsuppressed ardour of his manner, made Cynthia understand before long\nwith what kind of love she had now to deal. She did not put it into\nso many words--no, not even in her secret heart--but she recognized\nthe difference between Roger's relation to her and Osborne's long\nbefore Mrs. Gibson found it out. Molly was, however, the first to\ndiscover the nature of Roger's attention. The first time they saw\nhim after the ball, it came out to her observant eyes. Cynthia had\nnot been looking well since that evening; she went slowly about the\nhouse, pale and heavy-eyed; and, fond as she usually was of exercise\nand the free fresh air, there was hardly any persuading her now to go\nout for a walk. Molly watched this fading with tender anxiety, but\nto all her questions as to whether she had felt over-fatigued with\nher dancing, whether anything had occurred to annoy her, and all\nsuch inquiries, she replied in languid negatives. Once Molly touched\non Mr. Preston's name, and found that this was a subject on which\nCynthia was raw; now, Cynthia's face lighted up with spirit, and her\nwhole body showed her ill-repressed agitation, but she only said a\nfew sharp words, expressive of anything but kindly feeling towards\nthe gentleman, and then bade Molly never name his name to her again.\nStill, the latter could not imagine that he was more than intensely\ndistasteful to her friend, as well as to herself; he could not be\nthe cause of Cynthia's present indisposition. But this indisposition\nlasted so many days without change or modification, that even Mrs.\nGibson noticed it, and Molly became positively uneasy. Mrs. Gibson\nconsidered Cynthia's quietness and languor as the natural consequence\nof \"dancing with everybody who asked her\" at the ball. Partners whose\nnames were in the \"Red Book\" would not have produced half the amount\nof fatigue, according to Mrs. Gibson's judgment apparently, and if\nCynthia had been quite well, very probably she would have hit the\nblot in her mother's speech with one of her touches of sarcasm.\nThen, again, when Cynthia did not rally, Mrs. Gibson grew impatient,\nand accused her of being fanciful and lazy; at length, and partly\nat Molly's instance, there came an appeal to Mr. Gibson, and a\nprofessional examination of the supposed invalid, which Cynthia hated\nmore than anything, especially when the verdict was, that there was\nnothing very much the matter, only a general lowness of tone, and\ndepression of health and spirits, which would soon be remedied by\ntonics, and meanwhile, she was not to be roused to exertion.\n\n\"If there is one thing I dislike,\" said Cynthia to Mr. Gibson, after\nhe had pronounced tonics to be the cure for her present state, \"it is\nthe way doctors have of giving tablespoonfuls of nauseous mixtures as\na certain remedy for sorrows and cares.\" She laughed up in his face\nas she spoke; she had always a pretty word and smile for him, even in\nthe midst of her loss of spirits.\n\n\"Come! you acknowledge you have 'sorrows' by that speech: we'll make\na bargain: if you'll tell me your sorrows and cares, I'll try and\nfind some other remedy for them than giving you what you are pleased\nto term my nauseous mixtures.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Cynthia, colouring; \"I never said I had sorrows and cares;\nI spoke generally. What should I have a sorrow about?--you and Molly\nare only too kind to me,\" her eyes filling with tears.\n\n\"Well, well, we'll not talk of such gloomy things, and you shall have\nsome sweet emulsion to disguise the taste of the bitters I shall be\nobliged to fall back upon.\"\n\n\"Please, don't. If you but knew how I dislike emulsions and\ndisguises! I do want bitters--and if I sometimes--if I'm obliged\nto--if I'm not truthful myself, I do like truth in others--at least,\nsometimes.\" She ended her sentence with another smile, but it was\nrather faint and watery.\n\nNow the first person out of the house to notice Cynthia's change of\nlook and manner was Roger Hamley--and yet he did not see her until,\nunder the influence of the nauseous mixture, she was beginning to\nrecover. But his eyes were scarcely off her during the first five\nminutes he was in the room. All the time he was trying to talk\nto Mrs. Gibson in reply to her civil platitudes, he was studying\nCynthia; and at the first convenient pause he came and stood before\nMolly, so as to interpose his person between her and the rest of the\nroom; for some visitors had come in subsequent to his entrance.\n\n\"Molly, how ill your sister is looking! What is it? Has she had\nadvice? You must forgive me, but so often those who live together in\nthe same house don't observe the first approaches of illness.\"\n\nNow Molly's love for Cynthia was fast and unwavering, but if anything\ntried it, it was the habit Roger had fallen into of always calling\nCynthia Molly's sister in speaking to the latter. From any one else\nit would have been a matter of indifference to her, and hardly to be\nnoticed; it vexed both ear and heart when Roger used the expression;\nand there was a curtness of manner as well as of words in her reply.\n\n\"Oh! she was over-tired by the ball. Papa has seen her, and says she\nwill be all right very soon.\"\n\n\"I wonder if she wants change of air?\" said Roger, meditatively. \"I\nwish--I do wish we could have her at the Hall; you and your mother\ntoo, of course. But I don't see how it would be possible--or else how\ncharming it would be!\"\n\nMolly felt as if a visit to the Hall under such circumstances would\nbe altogether so different an affair to all her former ones, that she\ncould hardly tell if she should like it or not.\n\nRoger went on,--\n\n\"You got our flowers in time, did you not? Ah! you don't know how\noften I thought of you that evening! And you enjoyed it too, didn't\nyou?--you had plenty of agreeable partners, and all that makes a\nfirst ball delightful? I heard that your sister danced every dance.\"\n\n\"It was very pleasant,\" said Molly, quietly. \"But, after all, I'm not\nsure if I want to go to another just yet; there seems to be so much\ntrouble connected with a ball.\"\n\n\"Ah! you are thinking of your sister, and her not being well?\"\n\n\"No, I was not,\" said Molly, rather bluntly. \"I was thinking of the\ndress, and the dressing, and the weariness the next day.\"\n\nHe might think her unfeeling if he liked; she felt as if she had only\ntoo much feeling just then, for it was bringing on her a strange\ncontraction of heart. But he was too inherently good himself to put\nany harsh construction on her speech. Just before he went away, while\nhe was ostensibly holding her hand and wishing her good-by, he said\nto her in a voice too low to be generally heard,--\n\n\"Is there anything I could do for your sister? We have plenty of\nbooks, as you know, if she cares for reading.\" Then, receiving no\naffirmative look or word from Molly in reply to this suggestion,\nhe went on,--\"Or flowers? she likes flowers. Oh! and our forced\nstrawberries are just ready--I will bring some over to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I am sure she will like them,\" said Molly.\n\nFor some reason or other, unknown to the Gibsons, a longer interval\nthan usual occurred between Osborne's visits, while Roger came almost\nevery day, always with some fresh offering by which he openly sought\nto relieve Cynthia's indisposition as far as it lay in his power.\nHer manner to him was so gentle and gracious that Mrs. Gibson became\nalarmed, lest, in spite of his \"uncouthness\" (as she was pleased\nto term it), he might come to be preferred to Osborne, who was so\nstrangely neglecting his own interests, in Mrs. Gibson's opinion. In\nher quiet way, she contrived to pass many slights upon Roger; but the\ndarts rebounded from his generous nature that could not have imagined\nher motives, and fastened themselves on Molly. She had often been\ncalled naughty and passionate when she was a child; and she thought\nnow that she began to understand that she really had a violent\ntemper. What seemed neither to hurt Roger nor annoy Cynthia made\nMolly's blood boil; and now she had once discovered Mrs. Gibson's\nwish to make Roger's visits shorter and less frequent, she was\nalways on the watch for indications of this desire. She read her\nstepmother's heart when the latter made allusions to the Squire's\nloneliness, now that Osborne was absent from the Hall, and that Roger\nwas so often away amongst his friends during the day,--\n\n\"Mr. Gibson and I should be so delighted if you could have stopped to\ndinner; but, of course, we cannot be so selfish as to ask you to stay\nwhen we remember how your father would be left alone. We were saying\nyesterday we wondered how he bore his solitude, poor old gentleman!\"\n\nOr, as soon as Roger came with his bunch of early roses, it was\ndesirable for Cynthia to go and rest in her own room, while Molly\nhad to accompany Mrs. Gibson on some improvised errand or call.\nStill Roger, whose object was to give pleasure to Cynthia, and who\nhad, from his boyhood, been always certain of Mr. Gibson's friendly\nregard, was slow to perceive that he was not wanted. If he did not\nsee Cynthia, that was his loss; at any rate, he heard how she was,\nand left her some little thing which he believed she would like, and\nwas willing to risk the chance of his own gratification by calling\nfour or five times in the hope of seeing her once. At last there came\na day when Mrs. Gibson went beyond her usual negative snubbiness,\nand when, in some unwonted fit of crossness, for she was a very\nplacid-tempered person in general, she was guilty of positive\nrudeness.\n\nCynthia was very much better. Tonics had ministered to a mind\ndiseased, though she hated to acknowledge it; her pretty bloom and\nmuch of her light-heartedness had come back, and there was no cause\nremaining for anxiety. Mrs. Gibson was sitting at her embroidery\nin the drawing-room, and the two girls were at the window, Cynthia\nlaughing at Molly's earnest endeavours to imitate the French accent\nin which the former had been reading a page of Voltaire. For\nthe duty, or the farce, of settling to \"improving reading\" in\nthe mornings was still kept up, although Lord Hollingford, the\nunconscious suggestor of the idea, had gone back to town without\nmaking any of the efforts to see Molly again that Mrs. Gibson had\nanticipated on the night of the ball. That Alnaschar vision had\nfallen to the ground. It was as yet early morning; a delicious,\nfresh, lovely June day, the air redolent with the scents of\nflower-growth and bloom; and half the time the girls had been\nostensibly employed in the French reading they had been leaning out\nof the open window trying to reach a cluster of climbing roses. They\nhad secured them at last, and the buds lay on Cynthia's lap, but many\nof the petals had fallen off; so, though the perfume lingered about\nthe window-seat, the full beauty of the flowers had passed away. Mrs.\nGibson had once or twice reproved them for the merry noise they were\nmaking, which hindered her in the business of counting the stitches\nin her pattern; and she had set herself a certain quantity to do\nthat morning before going out, and was of that nature which attaches\ninfinite importance to fulfilling small resolutions, made about\nindifferent trifles without any reason whatever.\n\n\"Mr. Roger Hamley,\" was announced. \"So tiresome!\" said Mrs. Gibson,\nalmost in his hearing, as she pushed away her embroidery frame. She\nput out her cold, motionless hand to him, with a half-murmured word\nof welcome, still eyeing her lost embroidery. He took no apparent\nnotice, and passed on to the window.\n\n\"How delicious!\" said he. \"No need for any more Hamley roses now\nyours are out.\"\n\n\"I agree with you,\" said Mrs. Gibson, replying to him before either\nCynthia or Molly could speak, though he addressed his words to them.\n\"You have been very kind in bringing us flowers so long; but now our\nown are out we need not trouble you any more.\"\n\nHe looked at her with a little surprise clouding his honest face; it\nwas perhaps more at the tone than the words. Mrs. Gibson, however,\nhad been bold enough to strike the first blow, and she determined\nto go on as opportunity offered. Molly would perhaps have been more\npained if she had not seen Cynthia's colour rise. She waited for her\nto speak, if need were; for she knew that Roger's defence, if defence\nwere required, might be safely entrusted to Cynthia's ready wit.\n\nHe put out his hand for the shattered cluster of roses that lay in\nCynthia's lap.\n\n\"At any rate,\" said he, \"my trouble--if Mrs. Gibson considers it has\nbeen a trouble to me--will be over-paid, if I may have this.\"\n\n\"Old lamps for new,\" said Cynthia, smiling as she gave it to him. \"I\nwish one could always buy nosegays such as you have brought us, as\ncheaply.\"\n\n\"You forget the waste of time that, I think, we must reckon as part\nof the payment,\" said her mother. \"Really, Mr. Hamley, we must learn\nto shut our doors on you if you come so often, and at such early\nhours! I settle myself to my own employment regularly after breakfast\ntill lunch-time; and it is my wish to keep Cynthia and Molly to a\ncourse of improving reading and study--so desirable for young people\nof their age, if they are ever to become intelligent, companionable\nwomen; but with early visitors it is quite impossible to observe any\nregularity of habits.\"\n\nAll this was said in that sweet, false tone which of late had gone\nthrough Molly like the scraping of a slate-pencil on a slate. Roger's\nface changed. His ruddy colour grew paler for a moment, and he looked\ngrave and not pleased. In another moment the wonted frankness of\nexpression returned. Why should not he, he asked himself, believe\nher? It was early to call; it did interrupt regular occupation. So he\nspoke, and said,--\n\n\"I believe I have been very thoughtless--I'll not come so early\nagain; but I had some excuse to-day: my brother told me you had made\na plan for going to see Hurst Wood when the roses were out, and they\nare earlier than usual this year--I've been round to see. He spoke of\na long day there, going before lunch--\"\n\n\"The plan was made with Mr. Osborne Hamley. I could not think of\ngoing without him!\" said Mrs. Gibson, coldly.\n\n\"I had a letter from him this morning, in which he named your wish,\nand he says he fears he cannot be at home till they are out of\nflower. I daresay they are not much to see in reality, but the day is\nso lovely I thought that the plan of going to Hurst Wood would be a\ncharming excuse for being out of doors.\"\n\n\"Thank you. How kind you are! and so good, too, in sacrificing your\nnatural desire to be with your father as much as possible.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to say my father is so much better than he was in the\nwinter that he spends much of his time out of doors in his fields. He\nhas been accustomed to go about alone, and I--we think that as great\na return to his former habits as he can be induced to make is the\nbest for him.\"\n\n\"And when do you return to Cambridge?\"\n\nThere was some hesitation in Roger's manner as he replied,--\n\n\"It is uncertain. You probably know that I am a Fellow of Trinity\nnow. I hardly yet know what my future plans may be; I am thinking of\ngoing up to London soon.\"\n\n\"Ah! London is the true place for a young man,\" said Mrs. Gibson,\nwith decision, as if she had reflected a good deal on the question.\n\"If it were not that we really are so busy this morning, I should\nhave been tempted to make an exception to our general rule; one more\nexception, for your early visits have made us make too many already.\nPerhaps, however, we may see you again before you go?\"\n\n\"Certainly I shall come,\" replied he, rising to take his leave, and\nstill holding the demolished roses in his hand. Then, addressing\nhimself more especially to Cynthia, he added, \"My stay in London will\nnot exceed a fortnight or so--is there anything I can do for you--or\nyou?\" turning a little to Molly.\n\n\"No, thank you very much,\" said Cynthia, very sweetly, and then,\nacting on a sudden impulse, she leant out of the window, and gathered\nhim some half-opened roses. \"You deserve these; do throw that poor\nshabby bunch away.\"\n\nHis eyes brightened, his cheeks glowed. He took the offered buds, but\ndid not throw away the other bunch.\n\n\"At any rate, I may come after lunch is over, and the afternoons and\nevenings will be the most delicious time of day a month hence.\" He\nsaid this to both Molly and Cynthia, but in his heart he addressed it\nto the latter.\n\nMrs. Gibson affected not to hear what he was saying, but held out her\nlimp hand once more to him.\n\n\"I suppose we shall see you when you return; and pray tell your\nbrother how we are longing to have a visit from him again.\"\n\nWhen he had left the room, Molly's heart was quite full. She\nhad watched his face, and read something of his feelings: his\ndisappointment at their non-acquiescence in his plan of a day's\npleasure in Hurst Wood, the delayed conviction that his presence\nwas not welcome to the wife of his old friend, which had come so\nslowly upon him--perhaps, after all, these things touched Molly more\nkeenly than they did him. His bright look when Cynthia gave him the\nrose-buds indicated a gush of sudden delight more vivid than the pain\nhe had shown by his previous increase of gravity.\n\n\"I can't think why he will come at such untimely hours,\" said Mrs.\nGibson, as soon as she heard him fairly out of the house. \"It's\ndifferent from Osborne; we are so much more intimate with him: he\ncame and made friends with us all the time this stupid brother of\nhis was muddling his brains with mathematics at Cambridge. Fellow of\nTrinity, indeed! I wish he would learn to stay there, and not come\nintruding here, and assuming that because I asked Osborne to join in\na picnic it was all the same to me which brother came.\"\n\n\"In short, mamma, one man may steal a horse, but another must not\nlook over the hedge,\" said Cynthia, pouting a little.\n\n\"And the two brothers have always been treated so exactly alike by\ntheir friends, and there has been such a strong friendship between\nthem, that it is no wonder Roger thinks he may be welcome where\nOsborne is allowed to come at all hours,\" continued Molly, in high\ndudgeon. \"Roger's 'muddled brains,' indeed! Roger, 'stupid!'\"\n\n\"Oh, very well, my dears! When I was young it wouldn't have been\nthought becoming for girls of your age to fly out because a little\nrestraint was exercised as to the hours at which they should receive\nthe young men's calls. And they would have supposed that there might\nbe good reasons why their parents disapproved of the visits of\ncertain gentlemen, even while they were proud and pleased to see some\nmembers of the same family.\"\n\n\"But that was what I said, mamma,\" said Cynthia, looking at her\nmother with an expression of innocent bewilderment on her face. \"One\nman may--\"\n\n\"Be quiet, child! All proverbs are vulgar, and I do believe that\nis the vulgarest of all. You are really catching Roger Hamley's\ncoarseness, Cynthia!\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Cynthia, roused to anger, \"I don't mind your abusing\nme, but Mr. Roger Hamley has been very kind to me while I've not\nbeen well: I can't bear to hear him disparaged. If he's coarse, I've\nno objection to be coarse as well, for it seems to me it must mean\nkindliness and pleasantness, and the bringing of pretty flowers and\npresents.\"\n\nMolly's tears were brimming over at these words; she could have\nkissed Cynthia for her warm partisanship, but, afraid of betraying\nemotion, and \"making a scene,\" as Mrs. Gibson called any signs of\nwarm feeling, she laid down her book hastily, and ran upstairs to\nher room, and locked the door in order to breathe freely. There were\ntraces of tears upon her face when she returned into the drawing-room\nhalf-an-hour afterwards, walking straight and demurely up to her\nformer place, where Cynthia still sate and gazed idly out of the\nwindow, pouting and displeased; Mrs. Gibson, meanwhile, counting her\nstitches aloud with great distinctness and vigour.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nBUSH-FIGHTING.\n\n\nDuring all the months that had elapsed since Mrs. Hamley's death,\nMolly had wondered many a time about the secret she had so\nunwittingly become possessed of that last day in the Hall library. It\nseemed so utterly strange and unheard-of a thing to her inexperienced\nmind, that a man should be married, and yet not live with his\nwife--that a son should have entered into the holy state of matrimony\nwithout his father's knowledge, and without being recognized as the\nhusband of some one known or unknown by all those with whom he came\nin daily contact, that she felt occasionally as if that little ten\nminutes of revelation must have been a vision in a dream. Roger\nhad only slightly referred to it once, and Osborne had kept entire\nsilence on the subject ever since. Not even a look, or a pause,\nbetrayed any allusion to it; it even seemed to have passed out of\ntheir thoughts. There had been the great sad event of their mother's\ndeath to fill their minds on the next occasion of their meeting\nMolly; and since then long pauses of intercourse had taken place; so\nthat she sometimes felt as if both the brothers must have forgotten\nhow she had come to know their important secret. She even found\nherself often entirely forgetting it, but perhaps the consciousness\nof it was present to her unawares, and enabled her to comprehend the\nreal nature of Osborne's feelings towards Cynthia. At any rate, she\nnever for a moment had supposed that his gentle kind manner towards\nCynthia was anything but the courtesy of a friend. Strange to say, in\nthese latter days Molly had looked upon Osborne's relation to herself\nas pretty much the same as that in which at one time she had regarded\nRoger's; and she thought of the former as of some one as nearly a\nbrother both to Cynthia and herself, as any young man could well be,\nwhom they had not known in childhood, and who was in nowise related\nto them. She thought that he was very much improved in manner, and\nprobably in character, by his mother's death. He was no longer\nsarcastic, or fastidious, or vain, or self-confident. She did not\nknow how often all these styles of talk or of behaviour were put on\nto conceal shyness or consciousness, and to veil the real self from\nstrangers.\n\nOsborne's conversation and ways might very possibly have been just\nthe same as before, had he been thrown amongst new people; but Molly\nonly saw him in their own circle in which he was on terms of decided\nintimacy. Still there was no doubt that he was really improved,\nthough perhaps not to the extent for which Molly gave him credit; and\nthis exaggeration on her part arose very naturally from the fact,\nthat he, perceiving Roger's warm admiration for Cynthia, withdrew a\nlittle out of his brother's way; and used to go and talk to Molly in\norder not to intrude himself between Roger and Cynthia. Of the two,\nperhaps, Osborne preferred Molly; to her he needed not to talk if the\nmood was not on him--they were on those happy terms where silence is\npermissible, and where efforts to act against the prevailing mood of\nthe mind are not required. Sometimes, indeed, when Osborne was in the\nhumour to be critical and fastidious as of yore, he used to vex Roger\nby insisting upon it that Molly was prettier than Cynthia.\n\n\"You mark my words, Roger. Five years hence the beautiful Cynthia's\nred and white will have become just a little coarse, and her figure\nwill have thickened, while Molly's will only have developed into more\nperfect grace. I don't believe the girl has done growing yet; I'm\nsure she's taller than when I first saw her last summer.\"\n\n\"Miss Kirkpatrick's eyes must always be perfection. I cannot fancy\nany could come up to them: soft, grave, appealing, tender; and such a\nheavenly colour--I often try to find something in nature to compare\nthem to; they are not like violets--that blue in the eyes is too like\nphysical weakness of sight; they are not like the sky--that colour\nhas something of cruelty in it.\"\n\n\"Come, don't go on trying to match her eyes as if you were a draper,\nand they a bit of ribbon; say at once 'her eyes are loadstars,' and\nhave done with it! I set up Molly's grey eyes and curling black\nlashes, long odds above the other young woman's; but, of course, it's\nall a matter of taste.\"\n\nAnd now both Osborne and Roger had left the neighbourhood. In spite\nof all that Mrs. Gibson had said about Roger's visits being ill-timed\nand intrusive, she began to feel as if they had been a very pleasant\nvariety, now that they had ceased altogether. He brought in a whiff\nof a new atmosphere from that of Hollingford. He and his brother had\nbeen always ready to do numberless little things which only a man can\ndo for women; small services which Mr. Gibson was always too busy to\nrender. For the good doctor's business grew upon him. He thought that\nthis increase was owing to his greater skill and experience, and he\nwould probably have been mortified if he could have known how many\nof his patients were solely biassed in sending for him, by the fact\nthat he was employed at the Towers. Something of this sort must have\nbeen contemplated in the low scale of payment adopted long ago by\nthe Cumnor family. Of itself the money he received for going to the\nTowers would hardly have paid him for horse-flesh, but then, as Lady\nCumnor in her younger days had worded it,--\n\n\"It is such a thing for a man just setting up in practice for himself\nto be able to say he attends at this house!\"\n\nSo the prestige was tacitly sold and paid for; but neither buyer nor\nseller defined the nature of the bargain.\n\nOn the whole, it was as well that Mr. Gibson spent so much of his\ntime from home. He sometimes thought so himself when he heard his\nwife's plaintive fret or pretty babble over totally indifferent\nthings, and perceived of how flimsy a nature were all her fine\nsentiments. Still, he did not allow himself to repine over the step\nhe had taken; he wilfully shut his eyes and waxed up his ears to many\nsmall things that he knew would have irritated him if he had attended\nto them; and, in his solitary rides, he forced himself to dwell on\nthe positive advantages that had accrued to him and his through his\nmarriage. He had obtained an unexceptionable chaperone, if not a\ntender mother, for his little girl; a skilful manager of his previous\ndisorderly household; a woman who was graceful and pleasant to\nlook at for the head of his table. Moreover, Cynthia reckoned for\nsomething on the favourable side of the balance. She was a capital\ncompanion for Molly; and the two were evidently very fond of each\nother. The feminine companionship of the mother and daughter was\nagreeable to him as well as to his child,--when Mrs. Gibson was\nmoderately sensible and not over-sentimental, he mentally added; and\nthen he checked himself, for he would not allow himself to become\nmore aware of her faults and foibles by defining them. At any rate,\nshe was harmless, and wonderfully just to Molly for a stepmother.\nShe piqued herself upon this indeed, and would often call attention\nto the fact of her being unlike other women in this respect. Just\nthen sudden tears came into Mr. Gibson's eyes, as he remembered how\nquiet and undemonstrative his little Molly had become in her general\nbehaviour to him; but how once or twice, when they had met upon the\nstairs, or were otherwise unwitnessed, she had caught him and kissed\nhim--hand or cheek--in a sad passionateness of affection. But in a\nmoment he began to whistle an old Scotch air he had heard in his\nchildhood, and which had never recurred to his memory since; and\nfive minutes afterwards he was too busily treating a case of white\nswelling in the knee of a little boy, and thinking how to relieve the\npoor mother, who went out charring all day, and had to listen to the\nmoans of her child all night, to have any thought for his own cares,\nwhich, if they really existed, were of so trifling a nature compared\nto the hard reality of this hopeless woe.\n\nOsborne came home first. He returned, in fact, not long after Roger\nhad gone away; but he was languid and unwell, and, though he did\nnot complain, he felt unequal to any exertion. Thus a week or more\nelapsed before any of the Gibsons knew that he was at the Hall; and\nthen it was only by chance that they became aware of it. Mr. Gibson\nmet him in one of the lanes near Hamley; the acute surgeon noticed\nthe gait of the man as he came near, before he recognized who it was.\nWhen he overtook him he said,--\n\n\"Why, Osborne, is it you? I thought it was an old man of fifty\nloitering before me! I didn't know you had come back.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"WHY, OSBORNE, IS IT YOU?\"]\n\n\n\"Yes,\" said Osborne, \"I've been at home nearly ten days. I daresay\nI ought to have called on your people, for I made a half promise to\nMrs. Gibson to let her know as soon as I returned; but the fact is,\nI'm feeling very good-for-nothing,--this air oppresses me; I could\nhardly breathe in the house, and yet I'm already tired with this\nshort walk.\"\n\n\"You'd better get home at once; and I'll call and see you as I come\nback from Rowe's.\"\n\n\"No, you mustn't on any account!\" said Osborne, hastily; \"my father\nis annoyed enough about my going from home, so often, he says, though\nI hadn't been from it for six weeks. He puts down all my languor\nto my having been away,--he keeps the purse-strings, you know,\" he\nadded, with a faint smile, \"and I'm in the unlucky position of a\npenniless heir, and I've been brought up so--In fact, I must leave\nhome from time to time, and, if my father gets confirmed in this\nnotion of his that my health is worse for my absences, he'll stop the\nsupplies altogether.\"\n\n\"May I ask where you do spend your time when you are not at Hamley\nHall?\" asked Mr. Gibson, with some hesitation in his manner.\n\n\"No!\" replied Osborne, reluctantly. \"I will tell you this:--I\nstay with friends in the country. I lead a life which ought to be\nconducive to health, because it is thoroughly simple, rational, and\nhappy. And now I've told you more about it than my father himself\nknows. He never asks me where I've been; and I shouldn't tell him if\nhe did--at least, I think not.\"\n\nMr. Gibson rode on by Osborne's side, not speaking for a moment or\ntwo.\n\n\"Osborne, whatever scrapes you may have got into, I should advise\nyour telling your father boldly out. I know him; and I know he'll be\nangry enough at first, but he'll come round, take my word for it;\nand, somehow or another, he'll find money to pay your debts and set\nyou free, if it's that kind of difficulty; and if it's any other\nkind of entanglement, why still he's your best friend. It's this\nestrangement from your father that's telling on your health, I'll be\nbound.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Osborne, \"I beg your pardon; but it's not that; I am\nreally out of order. I daresay my unwillingness to encounter any\ndispleasure from my father is the consequence of my indisposition;\nbut I'll answer for it, it is not the cause of it. My instinct tells\nme there is something really the matter with me.\"\n\n\"Come, don't be setting up your instinct against the profession,\"\nsaid Mr. Gibson, cheerily.\n\nHe dismounted, and throwing the reins of his horse round his arm, he\nlooked at Osborne's tongue and felt his pulse, asking him various\nquestions. At the end he said,--\n\n\"We'll soon bring you about, though I should like a little more quiet\ntalk with you, without this tugging brute for a third. If you'll\nmanage to ride over and lunch with us to-morrow, Dr. Nicholls will\nbe with us; he's coming over to see old Rowe; and you shall have the\nbenefit of the advice of two doctors instead of one. Go home now,\nyou've had enough exercise for the middle of a day as hot as this is.\nAnd don't mope in the house, listening to the maunderings of your\nstupid instinct.\"\n\n\"What else have I to do?\" said Osborne. \"My father and I are not\ncompanions; one can't read and write for ever, especially when\nthere's no end to be gained by it. I don't mind telling you--but in\nconfidence, recollect--that I've been trying to get some of my poems\npublished; but there's no one like a publisher for taking the conceit\nout of one. Not a man among them would have them as a gift.\"\n\n\"Oho! so that's it, is it, Master Osborne? I thought there was some\nmental cause for this depression of health. I wouldn't trouble my\nhead about it, if I were you, though that's always very easily said,\nI know. Try your hand at prose, if you can't manage to please the\npublishers with poetry; but, at any rate, don't go on fretting\nover spilt milk. But I mustn't lose my time here. Come over to us\nto-morrow, as I said; and what with the wisdom of two doctors, and\nthe wit and folly of three women, I think we shall cheer you up a\nbit.\"\n\nSo saying, Mr. Gibson remounted, and rode away at the long, slinging\ntrot so well known to the country people as the doctor's pace.\n\n\"I don't like his looks,\" thought Mr. Gibson to himself at night,\nas over his daybooks he reviewed the events of the day. \"And then\nhis pulse. But how often we're all mistaken; and, ten to one, my own\nhidden enemy lies closer to me than his does to him--even taking the\nworse view of the case.\"\n\nOsborne made his appearance a considerable time before luncheon\nthe next morning; and no one objected to the earliness of his call.\nHe was feeling better. There were few signs of the invalid about\nhim; and what few there were disappeared under the bright pleasant\ninfluence of such a welcome as he received from all. Molly and\nCynthia had much to tell him of the small proceedings since he went\naway, or to relate the conclusions of half-accomplished projects.\nCynthia was often on the point of some gay, careless inquiry as\nto where he had been, and what he had been doing; but Molly, who\nconjectured the truth, as often interfered to spare him the pain of\nequivocation--a pain that her tender conscience would have felt for\nhim, much more than he would have felt it for himself.\n\nMrs. Gibson's talk was desultory, complimentary, and sentimental,\nafter her usual fashion; but still, on the whole, though Osborne\nsmiled to himself at much that she said, it was soothing and\nagreeable. Presently, Dr. Nicholls and Mr. Gibson came in; the former\nhad had some conference with the latter on the subject of Osborne's\nhealth; and, from time to time, the skilful old physician's sharp and\nobservant eyes gave a comprehensive look at Osborne.\n\nThen there was lunch, when every one was merry and hungry, excepting\nthe hostess, who was trying to train her midday appetite into\nthe genteelest of all ways, and thought (falsely enough) that Dr.\nNicholls was a good person to practise the semblance of ill-health\nupon, and that he would give her the proper civil amount of\ncommiseration for her ailments, which every guest ought to bestow\nupon a hostess who complains of her delicacy of health. The old\ndoctor was too cunning a man to fall into this trap. He would keep\nrecommending her to try the coarsest viands on the table; and, at\nlast, he told her if she could not fancy the cold beef to try a\nlittle with pickled onions. There was a twinkle in his eye as he said\nthis, that would have betrayed his humour to any observer; but Mr.\nGibson, Cynthia, and Molly were all attacking Osborne on the subject\nof some literary preference he had expressed, and Dr. Nicholls had\nMrs. Gibson quite at his mercy. She was not sorry when luncheon was\nover to leave the room to the three gentlemen; and ever afterwards\nshe spoke of Dr. Nicholls as \"that bear.\"\n\nPresently, Osborne came upstairs, and, after his old fashion, began\nto take up new books, and to question the girls as to their music.\nMrs. Gibson had to go out and pay some calls, so she left the three\ntogether; and after a while they adjourned into the garden, Osborne\nlounging on a chair, while Molly employed herself busily in tying up\ncarnations, and Cynthia gathered flowers in her careless, graceful\nway.\n\n\"I hope you notice the difference in our occupations, Mr. Hamley.\nMolly, you see, devotes herself to the useful, and I to the\nornamental. Please, under what head do you class what you are doing?\nI think you might help one of us, instead of looking on like the\nGrand Seigneur.\"\n\n\"I don't know what I can do,\" said he, rather plaintively. \"I should\nlike to be useful, but I don't know how; and my day is past for\npurely ornamental work. You must let me be, I'm afraid. Besides, I'm\nreally rather exhausted by being questioned and pulled about by those\ngood doctors.\"\n\n\"Why, you don't mean to say they have been attacking you since\nlunch!\" exclaimed Molly.\n\n\"Yes; indeed, they have; and they might have gone on till now if Mrs.\nGibson had not come in opportunely.\"\n\n\"I thought mamma had gone out some time ago!\" said Cynthia, catching\nwafts of the conversation as she flitted hither and thither among the\nflowers.\n\n\"She came into the dining-room not five minutes ago. Do you want her,\nfor I see her crossing the hall at this very moment?\" and Osborne\nhalf rose.\n\n\"Oh, not at all!\" said Cynthia. \"Only she seemed to be in such a\nhurry to go out, I fancied she had set off long ago. She had some\nerrand to do for Lady Cumnor, and she thought she could manage to\ncatch the housekeeper, who is always in the town on Thursday.\"\n\n\"Are the family coming to the Towers this autumn?\"\n\n\"I believe so. But I don't know, and I don't much care. They don't\ntake kindly to me,\" continued Cynthia, \"and so I suppose I'm not\ngenerous enough to take kindly to them.\"\n\n\"I should have thought that such a very unusual blot in their\ndiscrimination would have interested you in them as extraordinary\npeople,\" said Osborne, with a little air of conscious gallantry.\n\n\"Isn't that a compliment?\" said Cynthia, after a pause of mock\nmeditation. \"If any one pays me a compliment, please let it be short\nand clear. I'm very stupid at finding out hidden meanings.\"\n\n\"Then such speeches as 'you are very pretty,' or 'you have charming\nmanners,' are what you prefer. Now, I pique myself on wrapping up my\nsugar-plums delicately.\"\n\n\"Then would you please to write them down, and at my leisure I'll\nparse them.\"\n\n\"No! It would be too much trouble. I'll meet you half-way, and study\nclearness next time.\"\n\n\"What are you two talking about?\" said Molly, resting on her light\nspade.\n\n\"It's only a discussion on the best way of administering\ncompliments,\" said Cynthia, taking up her flower-basket again, but\nnot going out of the reach of the conversation.\n\n\"I don't like them at all in any way,\" said Molly. \"But, perhaps,\nit's rather sour grapes with me,\" she added.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Osborne. \"Shall I tell you what I heard of you at\nthe ball?\"\n\n\"Or shall I provoke Mr. Preston,\" said Cynthia, \"to begin upon you?\nIt's like turning a tap, such a stream of pretty speeches flows out\nat the moment.\" Her lip curled with scorn.\n\n\"For you, perhaps,\" said Molly; \"but not for me.\"\n\n\"For any woman. It's his notion of making himself agreeable. If you\ndare me, Molly, I'll try the experiment, and you'll see with what\nsuccess.\"\n\n\"No, don't, pray!\" said Molly, in a hurry. \"I do so dislike him!\"\n\n\"Why?\" said Osborne, roused to a little curiosity by her vehemence.\n\n\"Oh! I don't know. He never seems to know what one is feeling.\"\n\n\"He wouldn't care if he did know,\" said Cynthia. \"And he might know\nhe is not wanted.\"\n\n\"If he chooses to stay, he cares little whether he is wanted or not.\"\n\n\"Come, this is very interesting,\" said Osborne. \"It is like the\nstrophe and anti-strophe in a Greek chorus. Pray, go on.\"\n\n\"Don't you know him?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"Yes, by sight, and I think we were once introduced. But, you know,\nwe are much farther from Ashcombe, at Hamley, than you are here, at\nHollingford.\"\n\n\"Oh! but he's coming to take Mr. Sheepshanks' place, and then he'll\nlive here altogether,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Molly! who told you that?\" said Cynthia, in quite a different tone\nof voice from that in which she had been speaking hitherto.\n\n\"Papa,--didn't you hear him? Oh, no! it was before you were down this\nmorning. Papa met Mr. Sheepshanks yesterday, and he told him it was\nall settled: you know we heard a rumour about it in the spring!\"\n\nCynthia was very silent after this. Presently, she said that she had\ngathered all the flowers she wanted, and that the heat was so great\nshe would go indoors. And then Osborne went away. But Molly had set\nherself a task to dig up such roots as had already flowered, and to\nput down some bedding-out plants in their stead. Tired and heated as\nshe was she finished it, and then went upstairs to rest, and change\nher dress. According to her wont, she sought for Cynthia; there was\nno reply to her soft knock at the bedroom-door opposite to her own,\nand, thinking that Cynthia might have fallen asleep, and be lying\nuncovered in the draught of the open window, she went in softly.\nCynthia was lying upon the bed as if she had thrown herself down on\nit without caring for the ease or comfort of her position. She was\nvery still; and Molly took a shawl, and was going to place it over\nher, when she opened her eyes, and spoke,--\n\n\"Is that you, dear? Don't go. I like to know that you are there.\"\n\nShe shut her eyes again, and remained quite quiet for a few minutes\nlonger. Then she started up into a sitting posture, pushed her hair\naway from her forehead and burning eyes, and gazed intently at Molly.\n\n\"Do you know what I've been thinking, dear?\" said she. \"I think I've\nbeen long enough here, and that I had better go out as a governess.\"\n\n\"Cynthia! what do you mean?\" asked Molly, aghast. \"You've been\nasleep--you've been dreaming. You're over-tired,\" continued she,\nsitting down on the bed, and taking Cynthia's passive hand, and\nstroking it softly--a mode of caressing that had come down to her\nfrom her mother--whether as an hereditary instinct, or as a lingering\nremembrance of the tender ways of the dead woman, Mr. Gibson often\nwondered within himself when he observed it.\n\n\"Oh, how good you are, Molly! I wonder, if I had been brought up like\nyou, whether I should have been as good. But I've been tossed about\nso.\"\n\n\"Then, don't go and be tossed about any more,\" said Molly, softly.\n\n\"Oh, dear! I had better go. But, you see, no one ever loved me like\nyou, and, I think, your father--doesn't he, Molly? And it's hard to\nbe driven out.\"\n\n\"Cynthia, I am sure you're not well, or else you're not half awake.\"\n\nCynthia sate with her arms encircling her knees, and looking at\nvacancy.\n\n\"Well!\" said she, at last, heaving a great sigh; but, then, smiling\nas she caught Molly's anxious face, \"I suppose there's no escaping\none's doom; and anywhere else I should be much more forlorn and\nunprotected.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by your doom?\"\n\n\"Ah, that's telling, little one,\" said Cynthia, who seemed now to\nhave recovered her usual manner. \"I don't mean to have one, though. I\nthink that, though I am an arrant coward at heart, I can show fight.\"\n\n\"With whom?\" asked Molly, really anxious to probe the mystery--if,\nindeed, there was one--to the bottom, in the hope of some remedy\nbeing found for the distress Cynthia was in when first Molly entered.\n\nAgain Cynthia was lost in thought; then, catching the echo of Molly's\nlast words in her mind, she said,--\n\n\"'With whom?'--oh! show fight with whom?--why, my doom, to be sure.\nAm not I a grand young lady to have a doom? Why, Molly, child, how\npale and grave you look!\" said she, kissing her all of a sudden. \"You\nought not to care so much for me; I'm not good enough for you to\nworry yourself about me. I've given myself up a long time ago as a\nheartless baggage!\"\n\n\"Nonsense! I wish you wouldn't talk so, Cynthia!\"\n\n\"And I wish you wouldn't always take me 'at the foot of the letter,'\nas an English girl at school used to translate it. Oh, how hot it\nis! Is it never going to get cool again? My child! what dirty hands\nyou've got, and face too; and I've been kissing you--I daresay I'm\ndirty with it, too. Now, isn't that like one of mamma's speeches?\nBut, for all that, you look more like a delving Adam than a spinning\nEve.\" This had the effect that Cynthia intended; the daintily clean\nMolly became conscious of her soiled condition, which she had\nforgotten while she had been attending to Cynthia, and she hastily\nwithdrew to her own room. When she had gone, Cynthia noiselessly\nlocked the door; and, taking her purse out of her desk, she began to\ncount over her money. She counted it once--she counted it twice, as\nif desirous of finding out some mistake which should prove it to be\nmore than it was; but the end of it all was a sigh.\n\n\"What a fool!--what a fool I was!\" said she, at length. \"But even if\nI don't go out as a governess, I shall make it up in time.\"\n\nSome weeks after the time he had anticipated when he had spoken of\nhis departure to the Gibsons, Roger returned back to the Hall. One\nmorning when he called, Osborne told them that his brother had been\nat home for two or three days.\n\n\"And why has he not come here, then?\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"It is not\nkind of him not to come and see us as soon as he can. Tell him I say\nso--pray do.\"\n\nOsborne had gained one or two ideas as to her treatment of Roger the\nlast time he had called. Roger had not complained of it, or even\nmentioned it, till that very morning; when Osborne was on the point\nof starting, and had urged Roger to accompany him, the latter had\ntold him something of what Mrs. Gibson had said. He spoke rather as\nif he was more amused than annoyed; but Osborne could read that he\nwas chagrined at those restrictions placed upon calls which were the\ngreatest pleasure of his life. Neither of them let out the suspicion\nwhich had entered both their minds--the well-grounded suspicion\narising from the fact that Osborne's visits, be they paid early or\nlate, had never yet been met with a repulse.\n\nOsborne now reproached himself with having done Mrs. Gibson\ninjustice. She was evidently a weak, but probably a disinterested,\nwoman; and it was only a little bit of ill-temper on her part which\nhad caused her to speak to Roger as she had done.\n\n\"I daresay it was rather impertinent of me to call at such an\nuntimely hour,\" said Roger.\n\n\"Not at all; I call at all hours, and nothing is ever said about it.\nIt was just because she was put out that morning. I'll answer for it\nshe's sorry now, and I'm sure you may go there at any time you like\nin the future.\"\n\nStill, Roger did not choose to go again for two or three weeks, and\nthe consequence was that the next time he called the ladies were out.\nOnce again he had the same ill-luck, and then he received a little\npretty three-cornered note from Mrs. Gibson:--\n\n\n   MY DEAR SIR,\n\n   How is it that you are become so formal all on a sudden,\n   leaving cards, instead of awaiting our return? Fie for\n   shame! If you had seen the faces of disappointment that\n   I did when the horrid little bits of pasteboard were\n   displayed to our view, you would not have borne malice\n   against me so long; for it is really punishing others as\n   well as my naughty self. If you will come to-morrow--as\n   early as you like--and lunch with us, I'll own I was\n   cross, and acknowledge myself a penitent.--Yours ever,\n\n   HYACINTH C. K. GIBSON.\n\n\nThere was no resisting this, even if there had not been strong\ninclination to back up the pretty words. Roger went, and Mrs. Gibson\ncaressed and petted him in her sweetest, silkiest manner. Cynthia\nlooked lovelier than ever to him for the slight restriction that\nhad been laid for a time on their intercourse. She might be gay\nand sparkling with Osborne; with Roger she was soft and grave.\nInstinctively she knew her men. She saw that Osborne was only\ninterested in her because of her position in a family with whom he\nwas intimate; that his friendship was without the least touch of\nsentiment; and that his admiration was only the warm criticism of\nan artist for unusual beauty. But she felt how different Roger's\nrelation to her was. To him she was _the_ one, alone, peerless. If\nhis love was prohibited, it would be long years before he could\nsink down into tepid friendship; and to him her personal loveliness\nwas only one of the many charms that made him tremble into passion.\nCynthia was not capable of returning such feelings; she had had too\nlittle true love in her life, and perhaps too much admiration to do\nso; but she appreciated this honest ardour, this loyal worship that\nwas new to her experience. Such appreciation, and such respect for\nhis true and affectionate nature, gave a serious tenderness to her\nmanner to Roger, which allured him with a fresh and separate grace.\nMolly sate by, and wondered how it would all end, or, rather, how\nsoon it would all end, for she thought that no girl could resist such\nreverent passion; and on Roger's side there could be no doubt--alas!\nthere could be no doubt. An older spectator might have looked far\nahead, and thought of the question of pounds, shillings, and pence.\nWhere was the necessary income for a marriage to come from? Roger\nhad his Fellowship now, it is true; but the income of that would be\nlost if he married; he had no profession, and the life interest of\nthe two or three thousand pounds that he inherited from his mother,\nbelonged to his father. This older spectator might have been a little\nsurprised at the _empressement_ of Mrs. Gibson's manner to a younger\nson, always supposing this said spectator to have read to the depths\nof her worldly heart. Never had she tried to be more agreeable to\nOsborne; and though her attempt was a great failure when practised\nupon Roger, and he did not know what to say in reply to the delicate\nflatteries which he felt to be insincere, he saw that she intended\nhim to consider himself henceforward free of the house; and he was\ntoo glad to avail himself of this privilege to examine over-closely\ninto what might be her motives for her change of manner. He shut his\neyes, and chose to believe that she was now desirous of making up for\nher little burst of temper on his previous visit.\n\nThe result of Osborne's conference with the two doctors had been\ncertain prescriptions which appeared to have done him much good,\nand which would in all probability have done him yet more, could he\nhave been free of the recollection of the little patient wife in\nher solitude near Winchester. He went to her whenever he could; and,\nthanks to Roger, money was far more plentiful with him now than it\nhad been. But he still shrank, and perhaps even more and more, from\ntelling his father of his marriage. Some bodily instinct made him\ndread all agitation inexpressibly. If he had not had this money from\nRoger, he might have been compelled to tell his father all, and to\nask for the necessary funds to provide for the wife and the coming\nchild. But with enough in hand, and a secret, though remorseful,\nconviction that as long as Roger had a penny his brother was sure to\nhave half of it, made him more reluctant than ever to irritate his\nfather by a revelation of his secret. \"Not just yet, not just at\npresent,\" he kept saying both to Roger and to himself. \"By-and-by, if\nwe have a boy, I will call it Roger\"--and then visions of poetical\nand romantic reconciliations brought about between father and son,\nthrough the medium of a child, the offspring of a forbidden marriage,\nbecame still more vividly possible to him, and at any rate it was a\nstaving-off of an unpleasant thing. He atoned to himself for taking\nso much of Roger's Fellowship money by reflecting that, if Roger\nmarried, he would lose this source of revenue; yet Osborne was\nthrowing no impediment in the way of this event, rather forwarding it\nby promoting every possible means of his brother's seeing the lady of\nhis love. Osborne ended his reflections by convincing himself of his\nown generosity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nOLD WAYS AND NEW WAYS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nMr. Preston was now installed in his new house at Hollingford; Mr.\nSheepshanks having entered into dignified idleness at the house of\nhis married daughter, who lived in the county town. His successor\nhad plunged with energy into all manner of improvements; and\namong others, he fell to draining a piece of outlying waste and\nunreclaimed land of Lord Cumnor's, which was close to Squire Hamley's\nproperty--that very piece for which he had had the Government grant,\nbut which now lay neglected, and only half drained, with stacks of\nmossy tiles, and lines of upturned furrows telling of abortive plans.\nIt was not often that the Squire rode in this direction now-a-days;\nbut the cottage of a man who had been the squire's gamekeeper\nin those more prosperous days when the Hamleys could afford to\n\"preserve,\" was close to the rush-grown ground. This old servant and\ntenant was ill, and had sent a message up to the Hall, asking to see\nthe Squire: not to reveal any secret, or to say anything particular,\nbut only from the feudal loyalty, which made it seem to the dying man\nas if it would be a comfort to shake the hand, and look once more\ninto the eyes of the lord and master whom he had served, and whose\nancestors his own forbears had served for so many generations. And\nthe Squire was as fully alive as old Silas to the claims of the tie\nthat existed between them. Though he hated the thought, and still\nmore, should hate the sight of the piece of land, on the side of\nwhich Silas's cottage stood, the Squire ordered his horse, and rode\noff within half-an-hour of receiving the message. As he drew near\nthe spot he thought he heard the sound of tools, and the hum of\nmany voices, just as he used to hear them a year or two before. He\nlistened with surprise. Yes! Instead of the still solitude he had\nexpected, there was the clink of iron, the heavy gradual thud of the\nfall of barrows-ful of soil--the cry and shout of labourers. But not\non his land--better worth expense and trouble by far than the reedy\nclay common on which the men were, in fact, employed. He knew it was\nLord Cumnor's property; and he knew Lord Cumnor and his family had\ngone up in the world (\"the Whig rascals!\"), both in wealth and in\nstation, as the Hamleys had gone down. But all the same--in spite\nof long known facts, and in spite of reason--the Squire's ready\nanger rose high at the sight of his neighbour doing what he had been\nunable to do, and he a Whig, and his family only in the county since\nQueen Anne's time. He went so far as to wonder whether they might\nnot--the labourers he meant--avail themselves of his tiles, lying so\nconveniently close to hand. All these thoughts, regrets, and wonders\nwere in his mind as he rode up to the cottage he was bound to, and\ngave his horse in charge to a little lad, who had hitherto found his\nmorning's business and amusement in playing at \"houses\" with a still\nyounger sister, with some of the Squire's neglected tiles. But he\nwas old Silas's grandson, and he might have battered the rude red\nearthenware to pieces--a whole stack--one by one, and the Squire\nwould have said little or nothing. It was only that he would not\nspare one to a labourer of Lord Cumnor's. No! not one.\n\nOld Silas lay in a sort of closet, opening out of the family\nliving-room. The small window that gave it light looked right on to\nthe \"moor,\" as it was called; and by day the check curtain was drawn\naside so that he might watch the progress of the labour. Everything\nabout the old man was clean, if coarse; and, with Death, the\nleveller, so close at hand, it was the labourer who made the first\nadvances, and put out his horny hand to the Squire.\n\n\"I thought you'd come, Squire. Your father came for to see my father\nas he lay a-dying.\"\n\n\"Come, come, my man!\" said the Squire, easily affected, as he always\nwas. \"Don't talk of dying, we shall soon have you out, never fear.\nThey've sent you up some soup from the Hall, as I bade 'em, haven't\nthey?\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, I've had all as I could want for to eat and to drink. The\nyoung squire and Master Roger was here yesterday.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know.\"\n\n\"But I'm a deal nearer Heaven to-day, I am. I should like you to look\nafter th' covers in th' West Spinney, Squire; them gorse, you know,\nwhere th' old fox had her hole--her as give 'em so many a run. You'll\nmind it, Squire, though you was but a lad. I could laugh to think on\nher tricks yet.\" And, with a weak attempt at a laugh, he got himself\ninto a violent fit of coughing, which alarmed the squire, who thought\nhe would never get his breath again. His daughter-in-law came in\nat the sound, and told the Squire that he had these coughing-bouts\nvery frequently, and that she thought he would go off in one of them\nbefore long. This opinion of hers was spoken simply out before the\nold man, who now lay gasping and exhausted upon his pillow. Poor\npeople acknowledge the inevitableness and the approach of death in\na much more straightforward manner than is customary among more\neducated folk. The Squire was shocked at her hard-heartedness, as\nhe considered it; but the old man himself had received much tender\nkindness from his daughter-in-law; and what she had just said was no\nmore news to him than the fact that the sun would rise to-morrow. He\nwas more anxious to go on with his story.\n\n\"Them navvies--I call 'em navvies because some on 'em is strangers,\nthough some on 'em is th' men as was turned off your own works,\nsquire, when there came orders to stop 'em last fall--they're\na-pulling up gorse and brush to light their fire for warming up their\nmesses. It's a long way off to their homes, and they mostly dine\nhere; and there'll be nothing of a cover left, if you don't see after\n'em. I thought I should like to tell ye afore I died. Parson's been\nhere; but I did na tell him. He's all for the earl's folk, and he'd\nnot ha' heeded. It's the earl as put him into his church, I reckon,\nfor he said what a fine thing it were for to see so much employment\na-given to the poor, and he never said nought o' th' sort when your\nworks were agait, Squire.\"\n\nThis long speech had been interrupted by many a cough and gasp for\nbreath; and having delivered himself of what was on his mind, he\nturned his face to the wall, and appeared to be going to sleep.\nPresently he roused himself with a start:--\n\n\"I know I flogged him well, I did. But he were after pheasants' eggs,\nand I didn't know he were an orphan. Lord, forgive me!\"\n\n\"He's thinking on David Morton, the cripple, as used to go about\ntrapping vermin,\" whispered the woman.\n\n\"Why, he died long ago--twenty year, I should think,\" replied the\nSquire.\n\n\"Ay, but when grandfather goes off i' this way to sleep after a bout\nof talking he seems to be dreaming on old times. He'll not waken up\nyet, sir; you'd best sit down if you'd like to stay,\" she continued,\nas she went into the house-place and dusted a chair with her apron.\n\"He was very particular in bidding me wake him if he were asleep, and\nyou or Mr. Roger was to call. Mr. Roger said he'd be coming again\nthis morning--but he'll likely sleep an hour or more, if he's let\nalone.\"\n\n\"I wish I'd said good-by, I should like to have done that.\"\n\n\"He drops off so sudden,\" said the woman. \"But if you'd be better\npleased to have said it, Squire, I'll waken him up a bit.\"\n\n\"No, no!\" the Squire called out as the woman was going to be as good\nas her word. \"I'll come again, perhaps to-morrow. And tell him I was\nsorry; for I am indeed. And be sure and send to the Hall for anything\nyou want! Mr. Roger is coming, is he? He'll bring me word how he is,\nlater on. I should like to have bidden him good-by.\"\n\nSo, giving sixpence to the child who had held his horse, the Squire\nmounted. He sate still a moment, looking at the busy work going on\nbefore him, and then at his own half-completed drainage. It was a\nbitter pill. He had objected to borrowing from Government, in the\nfirst instance; and then his wife had persuaded him to the step; and\nafter it was once taken, he was as proud as could be of the only\nconcession to the spirit of progress he ever made in his life. He had\nread and studied the subject pretty thoroughly, if also very slowly,\nduring the time his wife had been influencing him. He was tolerably\nwell up in agriculture, if in nothing else; and at one time he had\ntaken the lead among the neighbouring landowners, when he first began\ntile-drainage. In those days people used to speak of Squire Hamley's\nhobby; and at market ordinaries, or county dinners, they rather\ndreaded setting him off on long repetitions of arguments from the\ndifferent pamphlets on the subject which he had read. And now the\nproprietors all around him were draining--draining; his interest\nto Government was running on all the same, though his works were\nstopped, and his tiles deteriorating in value. It was not a soothing\nconsideration, and the Squire was almost ready to quarrel with his\nshadow. He wanted a vent for his ill-humour; and suddenly remembering\nthe devastations on his covers, which he had heard about not a\nquarter of an hour before, he rode towards the men busy at work on\nLord Cumnor's land. Just before he got up to them he encountered\nMr. Preston, also on horseback, come to overlook his labourers. The\nSquire did not know him personally, but from the agent's manner\nof speaking, and the deference that was evidently paid to him, Mr.\nHamley saw that he was a responsible person. So he addressed the\nagent:--\"I beg your pardon, I suppose you are the manager of these\nworks?\"\n\nMr. Preston replied,--\"Certainly. I am that and many other things\nbesides, at your service. I have succeeded Mr. Sheepshanks in the\nmanagement of my lord's property. Mr. Hamley of Hamley, I believe?\"\n\nThe Squire bowed stiffly. He did not like his name to be asked or\npresumed upon in that manner. An equal might conjecture who he was,\nor recognize him, but, till he announced himself, an inferior had no\nright to do more than address him respectfully as \"sir.\" That was the\nSquire's code of etiquette.\n\n\"I am Mr. Hamley of Hamley. I suppose you are as yet ignorant of the\nboundary of Lord Cumnor's land, and so I will inform you that my\nproperty begins at the pond yonder--just where you see the rise in\nthe ground.\"\n\n\"I am perfectly acquainted with that fact, Mr. Hamley,\" said Mr.\nPreston, a little annoyed at the ignorance attributed to him. \"But\nmay I inquire why my attention is called to it just now?\"\n\nThe Squire was beginning to boil over; but he tried to keep his\ntemper in. The effort was very much to be respected, for it was a\ngreat one. There was something in the handsome and well-dressed\nagent's tone and manner inexpressibly irritating to the squire, and\nit was not lessened by an involuntary comparison of the capital\nroadster on which Mr. Preston was mounted with his own ill-groomed\nand aged cob.\n\n\"I have been told that your men out yonder do not respect these\nboundaries, but are in the habit of plucking up gorse from my covers\nto light their fires.\"\n\n\"It is possible they may!\" said Mr. Preston, lifting his eyebrows,\nhis manner being more nonchalant than his words. \"I daresay they\nthink no great harm of it. However, I'll inquire.\"\n\n\"Do you doubt my word, sir?\" said the Squire, fretting his mare till\nshe began to dance about. \"I tell you I've heard it only within this\nlast half-hour.\"\n\n\"I don't mean to doubt your word, Mr. Hamley; it's the last thing\nI should think of doing. But you must excuse my saying that the\nargument which you have twice brought up for the authenticity of your\nstatement, 'that you have heard it within the last half-hour,' is not\nquite so forcible as to preclude the possibility of a mistake.\"\n\n\"I wish you'd only say in plain language that you doubt my word,\"\nsaid the Squire, clenching and slightly raising his horsewhip. \"I\ncan't make out what you mean--you use so many words.\"\n\n\"Pray don't lose your temper, sir. I said I should inquire. You have\nnot seen the men pulling up gorse yourself, or you would have named\nit. I, surely, may doubt the correctness of your information until\nI have made some inquiry; at any rate, that is the course I shall\npursue, and if it gives you offence, I shall be sorry, but I shall\ndo it just the same. When I am convinced that harm has been done to\nyour property, I shall take steps to prevent it for the future, and\nof course, in my lord's name, I shall pay you compensation--it may\nprobably amount to half-a-crown.\" He added these last words in a\nlower tone, as if to himself, with a slight contemptuous smile on his\nface.\n\n\"Quiet, mare, quiet,\" said the Squire, totally unaware that he was\nthe cause of her impatient movements by the way he was perpetually\ntightening her reins; and also, perhaps, he unconsciously addressed\nthe injunction to himself.\n\nNeither of them saw Roger Hamley, who was just then approaching them\nwith long, steady steps. He had seen his father from the door of old\nSilas's cottage, and, as the poor fellow was still asleep, he was\ncoming to speak to his father, and was near enough now to hear the\nnext words.\n\n\"I don't know who you are, but I've known land-agents who were\ngentlemen, and I've known some who were not. You belong to this last\nset, young man,\" said the squire, \"that you do. I should like to try\nmy horsewhip on you for your insolence.\"\n\n\"Pray, Mr. Hamley,\" replied Mr. Preston, coolly, \"curb your temper a\nlittle, and reflect. I really feel sorry to see a man of your age in\nsuch a passion:\"--moving a little farther off, however, but really\nmore with a desire to save the irritated man from carrying his threat\ninto execution, out of a dislike to the slander and excitement it\nwould cause, than from any personal dread. Just at this moment Roger\nHamley came close up. He was panting a little, and his eyes were very\nstern and dark; but he spoke quietly enough.\n\n\"Mr. Preston, I can hardly understand what you mean by your last\nwords. But, remember, my father is a gentleman of age and position,\nand not accustomed to receive advice as to the management of his\ntemper from young men like you.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: THE BURNING OF THE GORSE.]\n\n\n\"I desired him to keep his men off my land,\" said the Squire to\nhis son--his wish to stand well in Roger's opinion restraining his\ntemper a little; but though his words might be a little calmer, there\nwere all other signs of passion present--the discoloured complexion,\nthe trembling hands, the fiery cloud in his eyes. \"He refused, and\ndoubted my word.\"\n\nMr. Preston turned to Roger, as if appealing from Philip drunk to\nPhilip sober, and spoke in a tone of cool explanation, which, though\nnot insolent in words, was excessively irritating in manner.\n\n\"Your father has misunderstood me--perhaps it is no wonder,\" trying\nto convey, by a look of intelligence at the son, his opinion that the\nfather was in no state to hear reason. \"I never refused to do what\nwas just and right. I only required further evidence as to the past\nwrong-doing; your father took offence at this,\" and then he shrugged\nhis shoulders, and lifted his eyebrows in a manner he had formerly\nlearnt in France.\n\n\"At any rate, sir! I can scarcely reconcile the manner and words\nto my father, which I heard you use when I first came up, with the\ndeference you ought to have shown to a man of his age and position.\nAs to the fact of the trespass--\"\n\n\"They are pulling up all the gorse, Roger--there'll be no cover\nwhatever for game soon,\" put in the Squire.\n\nRoger bowed to his father, but took up his speech at the point it was\nat before the interruption.\n\n\"I will inquire into it myself at a cooler moment; and if I find that\nsuch trespass or damage has been committed, of course I shall expect\nthat you will see it put a stop to. Come, father! I am going to\nsee old Silas--perhaps you don't know that he is very ill.\" So he\nendeavoured to wile the Squire away to prevent further words. He was\nnot entirely successful.\n\nMr. Preston was enraged by Roger's calm and dignified manner,\nand threw after them this parting shaft, in the shape of a loud\nsoliloquy,--\n\n\"Position, indeed! What are we to think of the position of a man who\nbegins works like these without counting the cost, and comes to a\nstand-still, and has to turn off his labourers just at the beginning\nof winter, leaving--\"\n\nThey were too far off to hear the rest. The Squire was on the point\nof turning back before this, but Roger took hold of the reins of the\nold mare, and led her over some of the boggy ground, as if to guide\nher into sure footing, but, in reality, because he was determined to\nprevent the renewal of the quarrel. It was well that the cob knew\nhim, and was, indeed, old enough to prefer quietness to dancing; for\nMr. Hamley plucked hard at the reins, and at last broke out with an\noath,--\"Damn it, Roger! I'm not a child; I won't be treated as such.\nLeave go, I say!\"\n\nRoger let go; they were now on firm ground, and he did not wish any\nwatchers to think that he was exercising any constraint over his\nfather; and this quiet obedience to his impatient commands did more\nto soothe the Squire than anything else could have effected just\nthen.\n\n\"I know I turned them off--what could I do? I'd no more money for\ntheir weekly wages; it's a loss to me, as you know. He doesn't know,\nno one knows, but I think your mother would, how it cut me to turn\n'em off just before winter set in. I lay awake many a night thinking\nof it, and I gave them what I had--I did, indeed. I hadn't got money\nto pay 'em, but I had three barren cows fattened, and gave every\nscrap of meat to the men, and I let 'em go into the woods and gather\nwhat was fallen, and I winked at their breaking off old branches, and\nnow to have it cast up against me by that cur--that servant. But I'll\ngo on with the works, by ----, I will, if only to spite him. I'll\nshow him who I am. My position, indeed! A Hamley of Hamley takes a\nhigher position than his master. I'll go on with the works, see if\nI don't! I'm paying between one and two hundred a year interest on\nGovernment money. I'll raise some more if I go to the Jews; Osborne\nhas shown me the way, and Osborne shall pay for it--he shall. I'll\nnot put up with insults. You shouldn't have stopped me, Roger! I wish\nto heaven I'd horsewhipped the fellow!\"\n\nHe was lashing himself again into an impotent rage, painful to a son\nto witness; but just then the little grandchild of old Silas, who\nhad held the Squire's horse during his visit to the sick man, came\nrunning up, breathless:\n\n\"Please, sir, please, squire, mammy has sent me; grandfather has\nwakened up sudden, and mammy says he's dying, and would you please\ncome; she says he'd take it as a kind compliment, she's sure.\"\n\nSo they went to the cottage, the Squire speaking never a word, but\nsuddenly feeling as if lifted out of a whirlwind and set down in a\nstill and awful place.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nA PASSIVE COQUETTE.\n\n\nIt is not to be supposed that such an encounter as Mr. Preston had\njust had with Roger Hamley sweetened the regards in which the two\nyoung men henceforward held each other. They had barely spoken to one\nanother before, and but seldom met; for the land-agent's employment\nhad hitherto lain at Ashcombe, some sixteen or seventeen miles from\nHamley. He was older than Roger by several years; but during the\ntime he had been in the county Osborne and Roger had been at school\nand at college. Mr. Preston was prepared to dislike the Hamleys for\nmany unreasonable reasons. Cynthia and Molly had both spoken of\nthe brothers with familiar regard, implying considerable intimacy;\ntheir flowers had been preferred to his on the occasion of the ball;\nmost people spoke well of them; and Mr. Preston had an animal's\ninstinctive jealousy and combativeness against all popular young men.\nTheir \"position\"--poor as the Hamleys might be--was far higher than\nhis own in the county; and, moreover, he was agent to the great Whig\nlord, whose political interests were diametrically opposed to those\nof the old Tory squire. Not that Lord Cumnor troubled himself much\nabout his political interests. His family had obtained property and\ntitle from the Whigs at the time of the Hanoverian succession; and\nso, traditionally, he was a Whig, and had belonged in his youth to\nWhig clubs, where he had lost considerable sums of money to Whig\ngamblers. All this was satisfactory and consistent enough. And if\nLord Hollingford had not been returned for the county on the Whig\ninterest--as his father had been before him, until he had succeeded\nto the title--it is quite probable Lord Cumnor would have considered\nthe British constitution in danger, and the patriotism of his\nancestors ungratefully ignored. But, excepting at elections, he had\nno notion of making Whig and Tory a party cry. He had lived too much\nin London, and was of too sociable a nature, to exclude any man who\njumped with his humour from the hospitality he was always ready to\noffer, be the agreeable acquaintance Whig, Tory, or Radical. But in\nthe county of which he was lord-lieutenant, the old party distinction\nwas still a shibboleth by which men were tested as to their fitness\nfor social intercourse, as well as on the hustings. If by any chance\na Whig found himself at a Tory dinner-table--or vice versâ--the food\nwas hard of digestion, and wine and viands were criticized rather\nthan enjoyed. A marriage between the young people of the separate\nparties was almost as unheard-of and prohibited an alliance as that\nof Romeo and Juliet's. And of course Mr. Preston was not a man in\nwhose breast such prejudices would die away. They were an excitement\nto him for one thing, and called out all his talent for intrigue on\nbehalf of the party to which he was allied. Moreover, he considered\nit as loyalty to his employer to \"scatter his enemies\" by any means\nin his power. He had always hated and despised the Tories in general;\nand after that interview on the marshy common in front of Silas's\ncottage, he hated the Hamleys and Roger especially, with a very\nchoice and particular hatred. \"That prig,\" as hereafter he always\ndesignated Roger--\"he shall pay for it yet,\" he said to himself by\nway of consolation, after the father and son had left him. \"What a\nlout it is!\"--watching the receding figures, \"The old chap has twice\nas much spunk,\" as the Squire tugged at his bridle reins. \"The old\nmare could make her way better without being led, my fine fellow. But\nI see through your dodge. You're afraid of your old father turning\nback and getting into another rage. Position indeed! a beggarly\nsquire--a man who did turn off his men just before winter, to rot\nor starve, for all he cared--it's just like a brutal old Tory.\" And,\nunder the cover of sympathy with the dismissed labourers, Mr. Preston\nindulged his own private pique very pleasantly.\n\nMr. Preston had many causes for rejoicing: he might have forgotten\nthis discomfiture, as he chose to feel it, in the remembrance of\nan increase of income, and in the popularity he enjoyed in his new\nabode. All Hollingford came forward to do the earl's new agent\nhonour. Mr. Sheepshanks had been a crabbed, crusty old bachelor,\nfrequenting inn-parlours on market days, not unwilling to give\ndinners to three or four chosen friends and familiars, with whom,\nin return, he dined from time to time, and with whom, also, he kept\nup an amicable rivalry in the matter of wines. But he \"did not\nappreciate female society,\" as Miss Browning elegantly worded his\nunwillingness to accept the invitations of the Hollingford ladies.\nHe was even unrefined enough to speak of these invitations to his\nintimate friends aforesaid as \"those old women's worrying,\" but, of\ncourse, they never heard of this. Little quarter-of-sheet notes,\nwithout any envelopes--that invention was unknown in those days--but\nsealed in the corners when folded up instead of gummed as they are\nfastened at present--occasionally passed between Mr. Sheepshanks\nand the Miss Brownings, Mrs. Goodenough or others. From the\nfirst-mentioned ladies the form ran as follows:--\"Miss Browning\nand her sister, Miss Phoebe Browning, present their respectful\ncompliments to Mr. Sheepshanks, and beg to inform him that a few\nfriends have kindly consented to favour them with their company at\ntea on Thursday next. Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe will take it\nvery kindly if Mr. Sheepshanks will join their little circle.\"\n\nNow for Mrs. Goodenough.\n\n\"Mrs. Goodenough's respects to Mr. Sheepshanks, and hopes he is in\ngood health. She would be very glad if he would favour her with his\ncompany to tea on Monday. My daughter, in Combermere, has sent me a\ncouple of guinea-fowls, and Mrs. Goodenough hopes Mr. Sheepshanks\nwill stay and take a bit of supper.\"\n\nNo need for the dates of the days of the month. The good ladies would\nhave thought that the world was coming to an end if the invitation\nhad been sent out a week before the party therein named. But not even\nguinea-fowls for supper could tempt Mr. Sheepshanks. He remembered\nthe made-wines he had tasted in former days at Hollingford parties,\nand shuddered. Bread-and-cheese, with a glass of bitter-beer, or a\nlittle brandy-and-water, partaken of in his old clothes (which had\nworn into shapes of loose comfort, and smelt strongly of tobacco),\nhe liked better than roast guinea-fowl and birch-wine, even without\nthrowing into the balance the stiff uneasy coat, and the tight\nneckcloth and tighter shoes. So the ex-agent had been seldom, if\never, seen at the Hollingford tea-parties. He might have had his form\nof refusal stereotyped, it was so invariably the same.\n\n\"Mr. Sheepshanks' duty to Miss Browning and her sister\" (to Mrs.\nGoodenough, or to others, as the case might be). \"Business of\nimportance prevents him from availing himself of their polite\ninvitation; for which he begs to return his best thanks.\"\n\nBut now that Mr. Preston had succeeded, and come to live in\nHollingford, things were changed.\n\nHe accepted every civility right and left, and won golden opinions\naccordingly. Parties were made in his honour, \"just as if he had been\na bride,\" Miss Phoebe Browning said; and to all of them he went.\n\n\"What's the man after?\" said Mr. Sheepshanks to himself, when he\nheard of his successor's affability, and sociability, and amiability,\nand a variety of other agreeable \"ilities,\" from the friends whom the\nold steward still retained at Hollingford. \"Preston's not a man to\nput himself out for nothing. He's deep. He'll be after something\nsolider than popularity.\"\n\nThe sagacious old bachelor was right. Mr. Preston was \"after\"\nsomething more than mere popularity. He went wherever he had a chance\nof meeting Cynthia Kirkpatrick.\n\nIt might be that Molly's spirits were more depressed at this time\nthan they were in general; or that Cynthia was exultant, unawares to\nherself, in the amount of attention and admiration she was receiving\nfrom Roger by day, from Mr. Preston in the evening, but the two girls\nseemed to have parted company in cheerfulness. Molly was always\ngentle, but very grave and silent. Cynthia, on the contrary, was\nmerry, full of pretty mockeries, and hardly ever silent. When first\nshe came to Hollingford one of her great charms had been that she\nwas such a gracious listener; now her excitement, by whatever caused,\nmade her too restless to hold her tongue; yet what she said was too\npretty, too witty, not to be a winning and sparkling interruption,\neagerly welcomed by those who were under her sway. Mr. Gibson was\nthe only one who observed this change, and reasoned upon it. \"She's\nin a mental fever of some kind,\" thought he to himself. \"She's very\nfascinating, but I don't quite understand her.\"\n\nIf Molly had not been so entirely loyal to her friend, she might have\nthought this constant brilliancy a little tiresome when brought into\nevery-day life; it was not the sunshiny rest of a placid lake, it was\nrather the glitter of the pieces of a broken mirror, which confuses\nand bewilders. Cynthia would not talk quietly about anything now;\nsubjects of thought or conversation seemed to have lost their\nrelative value. There were exceptions to this mood of hers, when she\nsank into deep fits of silence, that would have been gloomy had it\nnot been for the never varying sweetness of her temper. If there was\na little kindness to be done to either Mr. Gibson or Molly, Cynthia\nwas just as ready as ever to do it; nor did she refuse to do anything\nher mother wished, however fidgety might be the humour that prompted\nthe wish. But in this latter case Cynthia's eyes were not quickened\nby her heart.\n\nMolly was dejected, she knew not why. Cynthia had drifted a little\napart; that was not it. Her stepmother had whimsical moods; and if\nCynthia displeased her, she would oppress Molly with small kindnesses\nand pseudo-affection. Or else everything was wrong, the world was\nout of joint, and Molly had failed in her mission to set it right,\nand was to be blamed accordingly. But Molly was of too steady a\ndisposition to be much moved by the changeableness of an unreasonable\nperson. She might be annoyed, or irritated, but she was not\ndepressed. That was not it. The real cause was certainly this. As\nlong as Roger was drawn to Cynthia, and sought her of his own accord,\nit had been a sore pain and bewilderment to Molly's heart; but it was\na straightforward attraction, and one which Molly acknowledged, in\nher humility and great power of loving, to be the most natural thing\nin the world. She would look at Cynthia's beauty and grace, and feel\nas if no one could resist it. And when she witnessed all the small\nsigns of honest devotion which Roger was at no pains to conceal, she\nthought, with a sigh, that surely no girl could help relinquishing\nher heart to such tender, strong keeping as Roger's character\nensured. She would have been willing to cut off her right hand,\nif need were, to forward his attachment to Cynthia; and the\nself-sacrifice would have added a strange zest to a happy crisis. She\nwas indignant at what she considered to be Mrs. Gibson's obtuseness\nto so much goodness and worth; and when she called Roger \"a country\nlout,\" or any other depreciative epithet, Molly would pinch herself\nin order to keep silent. But after all, those were peaceful days\ncompared to the present, when she, seeing the wrong side of the\ntapestry, after the wont of those who dwell in the same house with\na plotter, became aware that Mrs. Gibson had totally changed her\nbehaviour to Roger, from some cause unknown to Molly.\n\nBut he was always exactly the same; \"steady as old Time,\" as Mrs.\nGibson called him, with her usual originality; \"a rock of strength,\nunder whose very shadow there is rest,\" as Mrs. Hamley had once\nspoken of him. So the cause of Mrs. Gibson's altered manner lay not\nin him. Yet now he was sure of a welcome, let him come at any hour he\nwould. He was playfully reproved for having taken Mrs. Gibson's words\ntoo literally, and for never coming before lunch. But he said he\nconsidered her reasons for such words to be valid, and should respect\nthem. And this was done out of his simplicity, and from no tinge of\nmalice. Then in their family conversations at home, Mrs. Gibson was\nconstantly making projects for throwing Roger and Cynthia together,\nwith so evident a betrayal of her wish to bring about an engagement,\nthat Molly chafed at the net spread so evidently, and at Roger's\nblindness in coming so willingly to be entrapped. She forgot his\nprevious willingness, his former evidences of manly fondness for the\nbeautiful Cynthia; she only saw plots of which he was the victim, and\nCynthia the conscious if passive bait. She felt as if she could not\nhave acted as Cynthia did; no, not even to gain Roger's love. Cynthia\nheard and saw as much of the domestic background as she did, and yet\nshe submitted to the rôle assigned to her! To be sure, this rôle\nwould have been played by her unconsciously; the things prescribed\nwere what she would naturally have done; but because they were\nprescribed--by implication only, it is true--Molly would have\nresisted; have gone out, for instance, when she was expected to stay\nat home; or have lingered in the garden when a long country walk was\nplanned. At last--for she could not help loving Cynthia, come what\nwould--she determined to believe that Cynthia was entirely unaware of\nall; but it was with an effort that she brought herself to believe\nit.\n\nIt may be all very pleasant \"to sport with Amaryllis in the shade,\nor with the tangles of Neæra's hair,\" but young men at the outset of\ntheir independent life have many other cares in this prosaic England\nto occupy their time and their thoughts. Roger was Fellow of Trinity,\nto be sure; and from the outside it certainly appeared as if his\nposition, as long as he chose to keep unmarried, was a very easy\none. His was not a nature, however, to sink down into inglorious\nease, even had his fellowship income been at his disposal. He\nlooked forward to an active life; in what direction he had not yet\ndetermined. He knew what were his talents and his tastes; and did\nnot wish the former to lie buried, nor the latter, which he regarded\nas gifts, fitting him for some peculiar work, to be disregarded or\nthwarted. He rather liked awaiting an object, secure in his own\nenergy to force his way to it, when once he saw it clearly. He\nreserved enough of money for his own personal needs, which were\nsmall, and for the ready furtherance of any project he might see\nfit to undertake; the rest of his income was Osborne's; given and\naccepted in the spirit which made the bond between these two brothers\nso rarely perfect. It was only the thought of Cynthia that threw\nRoger off his balance. A strong man in everything else, about her\nhe was as a child. He knew that he could not marry and retain\nhis fellowship; his intention was to hold himself loose from any\nemployment or profession until he had found one to his mind, so\nthere was no immediate prospect--no prospect for many years, indeed,\nthat he would be able to marry. Yet he went on seeking Cynthia's\nsweet company, listening to the music of her voice, basking in her\nsunshine, and feeding his passion in every possible way, just like an\nunreasoning child. He knew that it was folly--and yet he did it; and\nit was perhaps this that made him so sympathetic with Osborne. Roger\nracked his brains about Osborne's affairs much more frequently than\nOsborne troubled himself. Indeed, he had become so ailing and languid\nof late, that even the Squire made only very faint objections to\nhis desire for frequent change of scene, though formerly he used to\ngrumble so much at the necessary expenditure it involved.\n\n\"After all, it doesn't cost much,\" the Squire said to Roger one day.\n\"Choose how he does it, he does it cheaply; he used to come and ask\nme for twenty, where now he does it for five. But he and I have\nlost each other's language, that's what we have! and my dictionary\"\n(only he called it \"dixonary\") \"has all got wrong because of those\nconfounded debts--which he will never explain to me, or talk\nabout--he always holds me off at arm's length when I begin upon\nit--he does, Roger--me, his old dad, as was his primest favourite of\nall, when he was a little bit of a chap!\"\n\nThe Squire dwelt so much upon Osborne's reserved behaviour to\nhimself, that brooding over this one subject perpetually he became\nmore morose and gloomy than ever in his manner to Osborne, resenting\nthe want of the confidence and affection that he thus repelled. So\nmuch so that Roger, who desired to avoid being made the receptacle\nof his father's complaints against Osborne--and Roger's passive\nlistening was the sedative his father always sought--had often\nto have recourse to the discussion of the drainage works as a\ncounter-irritant. The Squire had felt Mr. Preston's speech about\nthe dismissal of his work-people very keenly; it fell in with the\nreproaches of his own conscience, though, as he would repeat to\nRoger over and over again,--\"I couldn't help it--how could I?--I was\ndrained dry of ready money--I wish the land was drained as dry as\nI am,\" said he, with a touch of humour that came out before he was\naware, and at which he smiled sadly enough. \"What was I to do, I ask\nyou, Roger? I know I was in a rage--I've had a deal to make me so--and\nmaybe I didn't think as much about consequences as I should ha'\ndone, when I gave orders for 'em to be sent off; but I couldn't have\ndone otherwise if I'd ha' thought for a twelvemonth in cool blood.\nConsequences! I hate consequences; they've always been against me;\nthey have. I'm so tied up I can't cut down a stick more, and that's a\n'consequence' of having the property so deucedly well settled; I wish\nI'd never had any ancestors. Ay, laugh, lad! it does me good to see\nthee laugh a bit, after Osborne's long face, which always grows longer\nat sight o' me!\"\n\n\"Look here, father!\" said Roger, suddenly, \"I'll manage somehow about\nthe money for the works. You trust to me; give me two months to turn\nmyself in, and you shall have some money, at any rate, to begin\nwith.\"\n\nThe Squire looked at him, and his face brightened as a child's does\nat the promise of a pleasure made to him by some one on whom he can\nrely. He became a little graver, however, as he said,--\"But how will\nyou get it? It's hard enough work.\"\n\n\"Never mind; I'll get it--a hundred or so at first--I don't yet\nknow how--but remember, father, I'm a senior wrangler, and a 'very\npromising young writer,' as that review called me. Oh, you don't know\nwhat a fine fellow you've got for a son! You should have read that\nreview to know all my wonderful merits.\"\n\n\"I did, Roger. I heard Gibson speaking of it, and I made him get it\nfor me. I should have understood it better if they could have called\nthe animals by their English names, and not put so much of their\nFrench jingo into it.\"\n\n\"But it was an answer to an article by a French writer,\" pleaded\nRoger.\n\n\"I'd ha' let him alone!\" said the Squire, earnestly. \"We had to\nbeat 'em, and we did it at Waterloo; but I'd not demean myself by\nanswering any of their lies, if I was you. But I got through the\nreview, for all their Latin and French--I did; and if you doubt me,\nyou just look at the end of the great ledger, turn it upside down,\nand you'll find I've copied out all the fine words they said of you:\n'careful observer,' 'strong nervous English,' 'rising philosopher.'\nOh! I can nearly say it all off by heart, for many a time when I'm\nfrabbed by bad debts, or Osborne's bills, or moidered with accounts,\nI turn the ledger wrong way up, and smoke a pipe over it, while I\nread those pieces out of the review which speak about you, lad!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nCOMING EVENTS.\n\n\nRoger had turned over many plans in his mind, by which he thought\nthat he could obtain sufficient money for the purpose he desired to\naccomplish. His careful grandfather, who had been a merchant in the\ncity, had so tied up the few thousands he had left to his daughter,\nthat although, in case of her death before her husband's, the latter\nmight enjoy the life-interest thereof, yet, in case of both their\ndeaths, their second son did not succeed to the property until he was\nfive-and-twenty; and if he died before that age, the money that would\nthen have been his went to one of his cousins on the maternal side.\nIn short, the old merchant had taken as many precautions about his\nlegacy as if it had been for tens, instead of units of thousands. Of\ncourse Roger might have slipped through all these meshes by insuring\nhis life until the specified age; and, probably, if he had consulted\nany lawyer, this course would have been suggested to him. But he\ndisliked taking any one into his confidence on the subject of\nhis father's want of ready money. He had obtained a copy of his\ngrandfather's will at Doctors' Commons, and he imagined that all the\ncontingencies involved in it would be patent to the light of nature\nand common sense. He was a little mistaken in this, but not the less\nresolved that money in some way he would have in order to fulfil his\npromise to his father, and for the ulterior purpose of giving the\nsquire some daily interest to distract his thoughts from the regrets\nand cares that were almost weakening his mind. It was \"Roger Hamley,\nsenior wrangler and Fellow of Trinity, to the highest bidder, no\nmatter what honest employment,\" and presently it came down to \"any\nbidder at all.\"\n\nAnother perplexity and distress at this time weighed upon Roger.\nOsborne, heir to the estate, was going to have a child. The Hamley\nproperty was entailed on \"heirs male born in lawful wedlock.\" Was the\n\"wedlock\" lawful? Osborne never seemed to doubt that it was--never\nseemed, in fact, to think twice about it. And if he, the husband, did\nnot, how much less did Aimée, the trustful wife? Yet who could tell\nhow much misery any shadows of illegality might cast into the future?\nOne evening Roger, sitting by the languid, careless, dilettante\nOsborne, began to question him as to the details of the marriage.\nOsborne knew instinctively at what Roger was aiming. It was not that\nhe did not desire perfect legality in justice to his wife; it was\nthat he was so indisposed at the time that he hated to be bothered.\nIt was something like the refrain of Gray's Scandinavian Prophetess:\n\"Leave me, leave me to repose.\"\n\n\"But do try and tell me how you managed it.\"\n\n\"How tiresome you are, Roger!\" put in Osborne.\n\n\"Well, I daresay I am. Go on!\"\n\n\"I've told you Morrison married us. You remember old Morrison at\nTrinity?\"\n\n\"Yes; as good and blunder-headed a fellow as ever lived.\"\n\n\"Well, he's taken orders; and the examination for priest's orders\nfatigued him so much that he got his father to give him a hundred or\ntwo for a tour on the Continent. He meant to get to Rome, because he\nheard that there were such pleasant winters there. So he turned up at\nMetz in August.\"\n\n\"I don't see why.\"\n\n\"No more did he. He never was great in geography, you know; and\nsomehow he thought that Metz, pronounced French fashion, must be on\nthe road to Rome. Some one had told him so in fun. However, it was\nvery well for me that I met with him there, for I was determined to\nbe married, and that without loss of time.\"\n\n\"But Aimée is a Catholic?\"\n\n\"That's true! but you see I am not. You don't suppose I would do her\nany wrong, Roger?\" asked Osborne, sitting up in his lounging-chair,\nand speaking rather indignantly to Roger, his face suddenly flushing\nred.\n\n\"No! I'm sure you would not mean it; but, you see, there's a child\ncoming, and this estate is entailed on 'heirs-male.' Now, I want\nto know if the marriage is legal or not? and it seems to me it's a\nticklish question.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Osborne, falling back into repose, \"if that's all, I\nsuppose you're next heir-male, and I can trust you as I can myself.\nYou know my marriage is _bonâ fide_ in intention, and I believe\nit to be legal in fact. We went over to Strasbourg; Aimée picked\nup a friend--a good middle-aged Frenchwoman--who served half\nas bridesmaid, half as chaperone, and then we went before the\nmayor--préfet--what do you call them? I think Morrison rather enjoyed\nthe spree. I signed all manner of papers in the prefecture; I did not\nread them over, for fear lest I could not sign them conscientiously.\nIt was the safest plan. Aimée kept trembling so I thought she would\nfaint; and then we went off to the nearest English chaplaincy,\nCarlsruhe, and the chaplain was away, so Morrison easily got the loan\nof the chapel, and we were married the next day.\"\n\n\"But surely some registration or certificate was necessary?\"\n\n\"Morrison said he would undertake all those forms; and he ought to\nknow his own business. I know I tipped him pretty well for the job.\"\n\n\"You must be married again,\" said Roger, after a pause, \"and\nthat before the child is born. Have you got a certificate of the\nmarriage?\"\n\n\"I daresay Morrison has got it somewhere. But I believe I'm legally\nmarried according to the laws both of England and France; I really\ndo, old fellow. I've got the préfet's papers somewhere.\"\n\n\"Never mind! you shall be married again in England. Aimée goes to the\nRoman Catholic chapel at Prestham, doesn't she?\"\n\n\"Yes. She is so good I wouldn't disturb her in her religion for the\nworld.\"\n\n\"Then you shall be married both there and at the church of the parish\nin which she lives as well,\" said Roger, decidedly.\n\n\"It's a great deal of trouble, unnecessary trouble, and unnecessary\nexpense, I should say,\" said Osborne. \"Why can't you leave well\nalone? Neither Aimée nor I are of the sort of stuff to turn\nscoundrels and deny the legality of our marriage; and if the child\nis a boy and my father dies, and I die, why I'm sure you'll do him\njustice, as sure as I am of myself, old fellow!\"\n\n\"But if I die into the bargain? Make a hecatomb of the present\nHamleys all at once, while you are about it. Who succeeds as\nheir-male?\"\n\nOsborne thought for a moment. \"One of the Irish Hamleys, I suppose.\nI fancy they are needy chaps. Perhaps you're right. But what need to\nhave such gloomy forebodings?\"\n\n\"The law makes one have foresight in such affairs,\" said Roger. \"So\nI'll go down to Aimée next week when I'm in town, and I'll make all\nnecessary arrangements before you come. I think you'll be happier if\nit is all done.\"\n\n\"I shall be happier if I've a chance of seeing the little woman, that\nI grant you. But what is taking you up to town? I wish I'd money to\nrun about like you, instead of being shut up for ever in this dull\nold house.\"\n\nOsborne was apt occasionally to contrast his position with Roger's\nin a tone of complaint, forgetting that both were the results of\ncharacter, and also that out of his income Roger gave up so large\na portion for the maintenance of his brother's wife. But if this\nungenerous thought of Osborne's had been set clearly before his\nconscience, he would have smote his breast and cried \"Mea culpa\" with\nthe best of them; it was only that he was too indolent to keep an\nunassisted conscience.\n\n\"I shouldn't have thought of going up,\" said Roger, reddening as if\nhe had been accused of spending another's money instead of his own,\n\"if I hadn't had to go up on business. Lord Hollingford has written\nfor me; he knows my great wish for employment, and has heard of\nsomething which he considers suitable; there's his letter if you care\nto read it. But it does not tell anything definitely.\"\n\nOsborne read the letter and returned it to Roger. After a moment or\ntwo of silence he said,--\"Why do you want money? Are we taking too\nmuch from you? It's a great shame of me; but what can I do? Only\nsuggest a career for me, and I'll follow it to-morrow.\" He spoke as\nif Roger had been reproaching him.\n\n\"My dear fellow, don't get those notions into your head! I must\ndo something for myself sometimes, and I've been on the look-out.\nBesides, I want my father to go on with his drainage; it would do\ngood both to his health and his spirits. If I can advance any part of\nthe money requisite, he and you shall pay me interest until you can\nreturn the capital.\"\n\n\"Roger, you're the providence of the family,\" exclaimed Osborne,\nsuddenly struck by admiration at his brother's conduct, and\nforgetting to contrast it with his own.\n\nSo Roger went up to London and Osborne followed him, and for two or\nthree weeks the Gibsons saw nothing of the brothers. But as wave\nsucceeds to wave, so interest succeeds to interest. \"The family,\"\nas they were called, came down for their autumn sojourn at the\nTowers, and again the house was full of visitors, and the Towers'\nservants, and carriages, and liveries were seen in the two streets of\nHollingford, just as they might have been seen for scores of autumns\npast.\n\nSo runs the round of life from day to day. Mrs. Gibson found the\nchances of intercourse with the Towers rather more personally\nexciting than Roger's visits, or the rarer calls of Osborne Hamley.\nCynthia had an old antipathy to the great family who had made so much\nof her mother and so little of her; and whom she considered as in\nsome measure the cause why she had seen so little of her mother in\nthe days when the little girl had craved for love and found none.\nMoreover, Cynthia missed her slave, although she did not care for\nRoger one thousandth part of what he did for her; yet she had found\nit not unpleasant to have a man whom she thoroughly respected, and\nwhom men in general respected, the subject of her eye, the glad\nministrant to each scarce-spoken wish, a person in whose sight\nall her words were pearls or diamonds, all her actions heavenly\ngraciousness, and in whose thoughts she reigned supreme. She had\nno modest unconsciousness about her; and yet she was not vain.\nShe knew of all this worship; and when from circumstances she no\nlonger received it, she missed it. The Earl and the Countess, Lord\nHollingford and Lady Harriet, lords and ladies in general, liveries,\ndresses, bags of game, and rumours of riding parties, were as nothing\nto her compared to Roger's absence. And yet she did not love him.\nNo, she did not love him. Molly knew that Cynthia did not love him.\nMolly grew angry with her many and many a time as the conviction of\nthis fact was forced upon her. Molly did not know her own feelings;\nRoger had no overwhelming interest in what they might be; while his\nvery life-breath seemed to depend on what Cynthia felt and thought.\nTherefore Molly had keen insight into her \"sister's\" heart; and she\nknew that Cynthia did not love Roger. Molly could have cried with\npassionate regret at the thought of the unvalued treasure lying at\nCynthia's feet; and it would have been a merely unselfish regret.\nIt was the old fervid tenderness: \"Do not wish for the moon, O my\ndarling, for I cannot give it thee.\" Cynthia's love was the moon\nRoger yearned for; and Molly saw that it was far away and out of\nreach, else would she have strained her heart-cords to give it to\nRoger.\n\n\"I am his sister,\" she would say to herself. \"That old bond is not\ndone away with, though he is too much absorbed by Cynthia to speak\nabout it just now. His mother called me 'Fanny;' it was almost like\nan adoption. I must wait and watch, and see if I can do anything for\nmy brother.\"\n\nOne day Lady Harriet came to call on the Gibsons, or rather on Mrs.\nGibson, for the latter retained her old jealousy if any one else\nin Hollingford was supposed to be on intimate terms at the great\nhouse, or in the least acquainted with their plans. Mr. Gibson might\npossibly know as much, but then he was professionally bound to\nsecrecy. Out of the house she considered Mr. Preston as her rival,\nand he was aware that she did so, and delighted in teasing her by\naffecting a knowledge of family plans and details of affairs of which\nshe was ignorant. Indoors she was jealous of the fancy Lady Harriet\nhad evidently taken for her step-daughter, and she contrived to place\nquiet obstacles in the way of a too frequent intercourse between the\ntwo. These obstacles were not unlike the shield of the knight in\nthe old story; only instead of the two sides presented to the two\ntravellers approaching it from opposite quarters, one of which was\nsilver, and one of which was gold, Lady Harriet saw the smooth and\nshining yellow radiance, while poor Molly only perceived a dull and\nheavy lead. To Lady Harriet it was \"Molly is gone out; she will be so\nsorry to miss you, but she was obliged to go to see some old friends\nof her mother's whom she ought not to neglect; as I said to her,\nconstancy is everything. It is Sterne, I think, who says, 'Thine own\nand thy mother's friends forsake not.' But, dear Lady Harriet, you'll\nstop till she comes home, won't you? I know how fond you are of her;\nin fact\" (with a little surface playfulness) \"I sometimes say you\ncome more to see her than your poor old Clare.\"\n\nTo Molly it had previously been,--\n\n\"Lady Harriet is coming here this morning. I can't have any one else\ncoming in. Tell Maria to say I'm not at home. Lady Harriet has always\nso much to tell me. Dear Lady Harriet! I've known all her secrets\nsince she was twelve years old. You two girls must keep out of the\nway. Of course she'll ask for you, out of common civility; but\nyou would only interrupt us if you came in, as you did the other\nday;\"--now addressing Molly--\"I hardly like to say so, but I thought\nit was very forward.\"\n\n\"Maria told me she had asked for me,\" put in Molly, simply.\n\n\"Very forward indeed!\" continued Mrs. Gibson, taking no further\nnotice of the interruption, except to strengthen the words to which\nMolly's little speech had been intended as a correction.\n\n\"I think this time I must secure her ladyship from the chances of\nsuch an intrusion, by taking care that you are out of the house,\nMolly. You had better go to the Holly Farm, and speak about those\ndamsons I ordered, and which have never been sent.\"\n\n\"I'll go,\" said Cynthia. \"It's far too long a walk for Molly; she's\nhad a bad cold, and isn't as strong as she was a fortnight ago. I\ndelight in long walks. If you want Molly out of the way, mamma, send\nher to the Miss Brownings'--they are always glad to see her.\"\n\n\"I never said I wanted Molly out of the way, Cynthia,\" replied Mrs.\nGibson. \"You always put things in such an exaggerated--I should\nalmost say, so coarse a manner. I am sure, Molly, my love, you\ncould never have so misunderstood me; it is only on Lady Harriet's\naccount.\"\n\n\"I don't think I can walk as far as the Holly Farm; papa would take\nthe message; Cynthia need not go.\"\n\n\"Well! I'm the last person in the world to tax any one's strength;\nI'd sooner never see damson preserve again. Suppose you do go and see\nMiss Browning; you can pay her a nice long call, you know she likes\nthat; and ask after Miss Phoebe's cold from me, you know. They were\nfriends of your mother's, my dear, and I would not have you break off\nold friendships for the world. 'Constancy above everything' is my\nmotto, as you know, and the memory of the dead ought always to be\ncherished.\"\n\n\"Now, mamma, where am I to go?\" asked Cynthia. \"Though Lady Harriet\ndoesn't care for me as much as she does for Molly--indeed, quite the\ncontrary I should say--yet she might ask after me, and I had better\nbe safely out of the way.\"\n\n\"True!\" said Mrs. Gibson, meditatively, yet unconscious of any satire\nin Cynthia's speech.\n\n\"She is much less likely to ask for you, my dear: I almost think\nyou might remain in the house, or you might go to the Holly Farm;\nI really do want the damsons; or you might stay here in the\ndining-room, you know, so as to be ready to arrange lunch prettily,\nif she does take a fancy to stay for it. She is very fanciful,\nis dear Lady Harriet! I would not like her to think we made any\ndifference in our meals because she stayed. 'Simple elegance,' as I\ntell her, 'always is what we aim at.' But still you could put out the\nbest service, and arrange some flowers, and ask cook what there is\nfor dinner that she could send us for lunch, and make it all look\npretty, and impromptu, and natural. I think you had better stay at\nhome, Cynthia, and then you could fetch Molly from Miss Brownings' in\nthe afternoon, you know, and you two could take a walk together.\"\n\n\"After Lady Harriet was fairly gone! I understand, mamma. Off with\nyou, Molly. Make haste, or Lady Harriet may come and ask for you as\nwell as mamma. I'll take care and forget where you are going to, so\nthat no one shall learn from me where you are, and I'll answer for\nmamma's loss of memory.\"\n\n\"Child! what nonsense you talk; you quite confuse me with being so\nsilly,\" said Mrs. Gibson, fluttered and annoyed as she usually was\nwith the Lilliputian darts Cynthia flung at her. She had recourse to\nher accustomed feckless piece of retaliation--bestowing some favour\non Molly; and this did not hurt Cynthia one whit.\n\n\"Molly, darling, there's a very cold wind, though it looks so fine.\nYou had better put on my Indian shawl; and it will look so pretty,\ntoo, on your grey gown--scarlet and grey; it's not everybody I would\nlend it to, but you're so careful.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Molly: and she left Mrs. Gibson in careless\nuncertainty as to whether her offer would be accepted or not.\n\nLady Harriet was sorry to miss Molly, as she was fond of the\ngirl; but as she perfectly agreed with Mrs. Gibson's truism about\n\"constancy\" and \"old friends,\" she saw no occasion for saying any\nmore about the affair, but sat down in a little low chair with her\nfeet on the fender. This said fender was made of bright, bright\nsteel, and was strictly tabooed to all household and plebeian feet;\nindeed the position, if they assumed it, was considered low-bred and\nvulgar.\n\n\"That's right, dear Lady Harriet! you can't think what a pleasure it\nis to me to welcome you at my own fireside, into my humble home.\"\n\n\"Humble! now, Clare, that's a little bit of nonsense, begging your\npardon. I don't call this pretty little drawing-room a bit of a\n'humble home.' It's as full of comforts, and of pretty things too, as\nany room of its size can be.\"\n\n\"Ah! how small you must feel it! even I had to reconcile myself to it\nat first.\"\n\n\"Well! perhaps your schoolroom was larger, but remember how bare it\nwas, how empty of anything but deal tables, and forms, and mats. Oh,\nindeed, Clare, I quite agree with mamma, who always says you have\ndone very well for yourself; and Mr. Gibson too! What an agreeable,\nwell-informed man!\"\n\n\"Yes, he is,\" said his wife, slowly, as if she did not like to\nrelinquish her rôle of a victim to circumstances quite immediately.\n\"He is very agreeable, very; only we see so little of him; and of\ncourse he comes home tired and hungry, and not inclined to talk to\nhis own family, and apt to go to sleep.\"\n\n\"Come, come!\" said Lady Harriet, \"I'm going to have my turn now.\nWe've had the complaint of a doctor's wife, now hear the moans of a\npeer's daughter. Our house is so overrun with visitors! and literally\nto-day I have come to you for a little solitude.\"\n\n\"Solitude!\" exclaimed Mrs. Gibson. \"Would you rather be alone?\"\nslightly aggrieved.\n\n\"No, you dear silly woman; my solitude requires a listener, to\nwhom I may say, 'How sweet is solitude!' But I am tired of the\nresponsibility of entertaining. Papa is so open-hearted, he asks\nevery friend he meets with to come and pay us a visit. Mamma is\nreally a great invalid, but she does not choose to give up her\nreputation for good health, having always considered illness a want\nof self-control. So she gets wearied and worried by a crowd of people\nwho are all of them open-mouthed for amusement of some kind; just\nlike a brood of fledglings in a nest; so I have to be parent-bird,\nand pop morsels into their yellow leathery bills, to find them\nswallowed down before I can think of where to find the next. Oh, it's\n'entertaining' in the largest, literalist, dreariest sense of the\nword. So I have told a few lies this morning, and come off here for\nquietness and the comfort of complaining!\"\n\nLady Harriet threw herself back in her chair, and yawned; Mrs. Gibson\ntook one of her ladyship's hands in a soft sympathizing manner, and\nmurmured,--\n\n\"Poor Lady Harriet!\" and then she purred affectionately.\n\nAfter a pause Lady Harriet started up and said--\"I used to take you\nas my arbiter of morals when I was a little girl. Tell me, do you\nthink it wrong to tell lies?\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear! how can you ask such questions?--of course it is very\nwrong,--very wicked indeed, I think I may say. But I know you were\nonly joking when you said you had told lies.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I wasn't. I told as plump fat lies as you would wish\nto hear. I said I 'was obliged to go into Hollingford on business,'\nwhen the truth was there was no obligation in the matter, only an\ninsupportable desire of being free from my visitors for an hour or\ntwo, and my only business was to come here, and yawn, and complain,\nand lounge at my leisure. I really think I'm unhappy at having told a\nstory, as children express it.\"\n\n\"But, my dear Lady Harriet,\" said Mrs. Gibson, a little puzzled as to\nthe exact meaning of the words that were trembling on her tongue, \"I\nam sure you thought that you meant what you said, when you said it.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't,\" put in Lady Harriet.\n\n\"And besides, if you didn't, it was the fault of the tiresome people\nwho drove you into such straits--yes, it was certainly their fault,\nnot yours--and then you know the conventions of society--ah, what\ntrammels they are!\"\n\nLady Harriet was silent for a minute or two; then she said,--\"Tell\nme, Clare; you've told lies sometimes, haven't you?\"\n\n\"Lady Harriet! I think you might have known me better; but I know you\ndon't mean it, dear.\"\n\n\"Yes, I do. You must have told white lies, at any rate. How did you\nfeel after them?\"\n\n\"I should have been miserable if I ever had. I should have died of\nself-reproach. 'The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the\ntruth,' has always seemed to me such a fine passage. But then I have\nso much that is unbending in my nature, and in our sphere of life\nthere are so few temptations. If we are humble, we are also simple,\nand unshackled by etiquette.\"\n\n\"Then you blame me very much? If somebody else will blame me, I\nsha'n't be so unhappy at what I said this morning.\"\n\n\"I am sure I never blamed you, not in my innermost heart, dear Lady\nHarriet. Blame you, indeed! That would be presumption in me.\"\n\n\"I think I shall set up a confessor! and it sha'n't be you, Clare,\nfor you have always been only too indulgent to me.\"\n\nAfter a pause she said,--\"Can you give me some lunch, Clare? I don't\nmean to go home till three. My 'business' will take me till then, as\nthe people at the Towers are duly informed.\"\n\n\"Certainly. I shall be delighted! but you know we are very simple in\nour habits.\"\n\n\"Oh, I only want a little bread-and-butter, and perhaps a slice of\ncold meat--you must not give yourself any trouble, Clare--perhaps you\ndine now? let me sit down just like one of your family.\"\n\n\"Yes, you shall; I won't make any alteration;--it will be so pleasant\nto have you sharing our family meal, dear Lady Harriet. But we dine\nlate, we only lunch now. How low the fire is getting; I really am\nforgetting everything in the pleasure of this tête-à-tête!\"\n\nSo she rang twice; with great distinctness, and with a long pause\nbetween the rings. Maria brought in coals.\n\nBut the signal was as well understood by Cynthia as the \"Hall of\nApollo\" was by the servants of Lucullus. The brace of partridges that\nwere to have been for the late dinner were instantly put down to the\nfire; and the prettiest china brought out, and the table decked with\nflowers and fruit, arranged with all Cynthia's usual dexterity and\ntaste. So that when the meal was announced, and Lady Harriet entered\nthe room, she could not but think her hostess's apologies had been\nquite unnecessary; and be more and more convinced that Clare had\ndone very well for herself. Cynthia now joined the party, pretty\nand elegant as she always was; but somehow she did not take Lady\nHarriet's fancy; she only noticed her on account of her being her\nmother's daughter. Her presence made the conversation more general,\nand Lady Harriet gave out several pieces of news, none of them of any\ngreat importance to her, but as what had been talked about by the\ncircle of visitors assembled at the Towers.\n\n\"Lord Hollingford ought to have been with us,\" she said, amongst\nother things; \"but he is obliged, or fancies himself obliged, which\nis all the same thing, to stay in town about this Crichton legacy!\"\n\n\"A legacy? To Lord Hollingford? I am so glad!\"\n\n\"Don't be in a hurry to be glad! It's nothing for him but trouble.\nDidn't you hear of that rich eccentric Mr. Crichton, who died\nsome time ago, and--fired by the example of Lord Bridgewater,\nI suppose--left a sum of money in the hands of trustees, of\nwhom my brother is one, to send out a man with a thousand fine\nqualifications, to make a scientific voyage, with a view to bringing\nback specimens of the fauna of distant lands, and so forming the\nnucleus of a museum which is to be called the Crichton Museum, and so\nperpetuate the founder's name. Such various forms does man's vanity\ntake! Sometimes it stimulates philanthropy; sometimes a love of\nscience!\"\n\n\"It seems to me a very laudable and useful object, I am sure,\" said\nMrs. Gibson, safely.\n\n\"I daresay it is, taking it from the public-good view. But it's\nrather tiresome to us privately, for it keeps Hollingford in town--or\nbetween it and Cambridge--and each place as dull and empty as can be,\njust when we want him down at the Towers. The thing ought to have\nbeen decided long ago, and there's some danger of the legacy lapsing.\nThe two other trustees have run away to the Continent, feeling, as\nthey say, the utmost confidence in him, but in reality shirking their\nresponsibilities. However, I believe he likes it, so I ought not to\ngrumble. He thinks he is going to be very successful in the choice of\nhis man--and he belongs to this county, too,--young Hamley of Hamley,\nif he can only get his college to let him go, for he is a Fellow of\nTrinity, senior wrangler or something; and they're not so foolish as\nto send their crack man to be eaten up by lions and tigers!\"\n\n\"It must be Roger Hamley!\" exclaimed Cynthia, her eyes brightening,\nand her cheeks flushing.\n\n\"He's not the eldest son; he can scarcely be called Hamley of\nHamley!\" said Mrs. Gibson.\n\n\"Hollingford's man is a Fellow of Trinity, as I said before.\"\n\n\"Then it is Mr. Roger Hamley,\" said Cynthia; \"and he's up in London\nabout some business! What news for Molly when she comes home!\"\n\n\"Why, what has Molly to do with it?\" asked Lady Harriet. \"Is--?\" and\nshe looked into Mrs. Gibson's face for an answer. Mrs. Gibson in\nreply gave an intelligent and very expressive glance at Cynthia, who\nhowever did not perceive it.\n\n\"Oh, no! not at all,\"--and Mrs. Gibson nodded a little at her\ndaughter, as much as to say, \"If any one, that.\"\n\nLady Harriet began to look at the pretty Miss Kirkpatrick with fresh\ninterest; her brother had spoken in such a manner of this young\nMr. Hamley that every one connected with the phoenix was worthy of\nobservation. Then, as if the mention of Molly's name had brought her\nafresh into her mind, Lady Harriet said,--\"And where is Molly all\nthis time? I should like to see my little mentor. I hear she is very\nmuch grown since those days.\"\n\n\"Oh! when she once gets gossiping with the Miss Brownings, she never\nknows when to come home,\" said Mrs. Gibson.\n\n\"The Miss Brownings? Oh! I'm so glad you named them! I'm very fond of\nthem. Pecksy and Flapsy; I may call them so in Molly's absence. I'll\ngo and see them before I go home, and then perhaps I shall see my\ndear little Molly too. Do you know, Clare, I've quite taken a fancy\nto that girl!\"\n\nSo Mrs. Gibson, after all her precautions, had to submit to Lady\nHarriet's leaving her half-an-hour earlier than she otherwise would\nhave done in order to \"make herself common\" (as Mrs. Gibson expressed\nit) by calling on the Miss Brownings.\n\nBut Molly had left before Lady Harriet arrived.\n\nMolly went the long walk to the Holly Farm, to order the damsons,\nout of a kind of penitence. She had felt conscious of anger at being\nsent out of the house by such a palpable manoeuvre as that which\nher stepmother had employed. Of course she did not meet Cynthia, so\nshe went alone along the pretty lanes, with grassy sides and high\nhedge-banks not at all in the style of modern agriculture. At first\nshe made herself uncomfortable with questioning herself as to how\nfar it was right to leave unnoticed the small domestic failings--the\nwebs, the distortions of truth which had prevailed in their household\never since her father's second marriage. She knew that very often\nshe longed to protest, but did not do it, from the desire of sparing\nher father any discord; and she saw by his face that he, too, was\noccasionally aware of certain things that gave him pain, as showing\nthat his wife's standard of conduct was not as high as he would have\nliked. It was a wonder to Molly whether this silence was right or\nwrong. With a girl's want of toleration, and want of experience to\nteach her the force of circumstances, and of temptation, she had\noften been on the point of telling her stepmother some forcible home\ntruths. But, possibly, her father's example of silence, and often\nsome piece of kindness on Mrs. Gibson's part (for after her way, and\nwhen in a good temper, she was very kind to Molly), made her hold her\ntongue.\n\nThat night at dinner, Mrs. Gibson recounted the conversation between\nherself and Lady Harriet, giving it a very strong individual\ncolouring, as was her wont, and telling nearly the whole of what had\npassed, although implying that there was a great deal said which was\nso purely confidential, that she was bound in honour not to repeat\nit. Her three auditors listened to her without interrupting her\nmuch--indeed, without bestowing extreme attention on what she was\nsaying, until she came to the fact of Lord Hollingford's absence in\nLondon, and the reason for it.\n\n\"Roger Hamley going off on a scientific expedition!\" exclaimed Mr.\nGibson, suddenly awakened into vivacity.\n\n\"Yes. At least it is not settled finally; but as Lord Hollingford\nis the only trustee who takes any interest--and being Lord Cumnor's\nson--it is next to certain.\"\n\n\"I think I must have a voice in the matter,\" said Mr. Gibson; and he\nrelapsed into silence, keeping his ears open, however, henceforward.\n\n\"How long will he be away?\" asked Cynthia. \"We shall miss him sadly.\"\n\nMolly's lips formed an acquiescing \"yes\" to this remark, but no sound\nwas heard. There was a buzzing in her ears as if the others were\ngoing on with the conversation, but the words they uttered seemed\nindistinct and blurred; they were merely conjectures, and did not\ninterfere with the one great piece of news. To the rest of the party\nshe appeared to be eating her dinner as usual, and, if she were\nsilent, there was one listener the more to Mrs. Gibson's stream of\nprattle, and Mr. Gibson's and Cynthia's remarks.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\nBRIGHTENING PROSPECTS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nIt was a day or two afterwards, that Mr. Gibson made time to ride\nround by Hamley, desirous to learn more exact particulars of this\nscheme for Roger than he could obtain from any extraneous source, and\nrather puzzled to know whether he should interfere in the project or\nnot. The state of the case was this:--Osborne's symptoms were, in Mr.\nGibson's opinion, signs of his having a fatal disease. Dr. Nicholls\nhad differed from him on this head, and Mr. Gibson knew that the old\nphysician had had long experience, and was considered very skilful\nin the profession. Still he believed that he himself was right, and,\nif so, the complaint was one which might continue for years in the\nsame state as at present, or might end the young man's life in an\nhour--a minute. Supposing that Mr. Gibson was right, would it be well\nfor Roger to be away where no sudden calls for his presence could\nreach him--away for two years? Yet if the affair was concluded, the\ninterference of a medical man might accelerate the very evil to be\nfeared; and after all, Dr. Nicholls might be right, and the symptoms\nmight proceed from some other cause. Might? Yes. Probably did? No.\nMr. Gibson could not bring himself to say \"yes\" to this latter form\nof sentence. So he rode on, meditating; his reins slack, his head\na little bent. It was one of those still and lovely autumn days\nwhen the red and yellow leaves are hanging-pegs to dewy, brilliant\ngossamer-webs; when the hedges are full of trailing brambles, loaded\nwith ripe blackberries; when the air is full of the farewell whistles\nand pipes of birds, clear and short--not the long full-throated\nwarbles of spring; when the whirr of the partridge's wings is heard\nin the stubble-fields, as the sharp hoof-blows fall on the paved\nlanes; when here and there a leaf floats and flutters down to the\nground, although there is not a single breath of wind. The country\nsurgeon felt the beauty of the seasons perhaps more than most men.\nHe saw more of it by day, by night, in storm and sunshine, or in the\nstill, soft, cloudy weather. He never spoke about what he felt on\nthe subject; indeed, he did not put his feelings into words, even to\nhimself. But if his mood ever approached to the sentimental, it was\non such days as this. He rode into the stable-yard, gave his horse to\na man, and went into the house by a side entrance. In the passage he\nmet the Squire.\n\n\"That's capital, Gibson! what good wind blew you here? You'll have\nsome lunch? it's on the table, I only just this minute left the\nroom.\" And he kept shaking Mr. Gibson's hand all the time till he had\nplaced him, nothing loth, at the well-covered dining-table.\n\n\"What's this I hear about Roger?\" said Mr. Gibson, plunging at once\ninto the subject.\n\n\"Aha! so you've heard, have you? It's famous, isn't it? He's a boy to\nbe proud of, is old Roger. Steady Roger; we used to think him slow,\nbut it seems to me that slow and sure wins the race. But tell me;\nwhat have you heard? how much is known? Nay, you must have a glass\nfull. It's old ale, such as we don't brew now-a-days; it's as old\nas Osborne. We brewed it that autumn, and we called it the young\nsquire's ale. I thought to have tapped it on his marriage, but I\ndon't know when that will come to pass, so we've tapped it now in\nRoger's honour.\"\n\nThe old squire had evidently been enjoying the young squire's ale\nto the verge of prudence. It was indeed as he said, \"as strong as\nbrandy,\" and Mr. Gibson had to sip it very carefully as he ate his\ncold roast beef.\n\n\"Well! and what have you heard? There's a deal to hear, and all good\nnews, though I shall miss the lad, I know that.\"\n\n\"I did not know it was settled; I only heard that it was in\nprogress.\"\n\n\"Well, it was only in progress, as you call it, till last Tuesday.\nHe never let me know anything about it, though; he says he thought I\nmight be fidgety with thinking of the pros and cons. So I never knew\na word on't till I had a letter from my Lord Hollingford--where is\nit?\" pulling out a great black leathern receptacle for all manner of\npapers. And putting on his spectacles, he read aloud their headings.\n\n\"'Measurement of timber, new railings,' 'drench for cows, from Farmer\nHayes,' 'Dobson's accounts,'--'um 'um--here it is. Now read that\nletter,\" handing it to Mr. Gibson.\n\nIt was a manly, feeling, sensible letter, explaining to the old\nfather in very simple language the services which were demanded\nby the terms of the will to which he and two or three others were\ntrustees; the liberal allowance for expenses, the still more liberal\nreward for performance, which had tempted several men of considerable\nrenown to offer themselves as candidates for the appointment. Lord\nHollingford then went on to say that, having seen a good deal of\nRoger lately, since the publication of his article in reply to the\nFrench osteologist, he had had reason to think that in him the\ntrustees would find united the various qualities required in a\ngreater measure than in any of the applicants who had at that time\npresented themselves. Roger had deep interest in the subject; much\nacquired knowledge, and at the same time, great natural powers of\ncomparison, and classification of facts; he had shown himself to be\nan observer of a fine and accurate kind; he was of the right age, in\nthe very prime of health and strength, and unshackled by any family\nties. Here Mr. Gibson paused for consideration. He hardly cared to\nascertain by what steps the result had been arrived at--he already\nknew what that result was; but his mind was again arrested as his eye\ncaught on the remuneration offered, which was indeed most liberal;\nand then he read with attention the high praise bestowed on the\nson in this letter to the father. The Squire had been watching Mr.\nGibson--waiting till he came to this part--and he rubbed his hands\ntogether as he said,--\n\n\"Ay! you've come to it at last. It's the best part of the whole,\nisn't it? God bless the boy! and from a Whig, mind you, which makes\nit the more handsome. And there's more to come still. I say, Gibson,\nI think my luck is turning at last,\" passing him on yet another\nletter to read. \"That only came this morning; but I've acted on it\nalready, I sent for the foreman of the drainage works at once, I did;\nand to-morrow, please God, they'll be at work again.\"\n\nMr. Gibson read the second letter, from Roger. To a certain degree\nit was a modest repetition of what Lord Hollingford had said, with\nan explanation of how he had come to take so decided a step in life\nwithout consulting his father. He did not wish him to be in suspense\nfor one reason. Another was that he felt, as no one else could feel\nfor him, that by accepting this offer, he entered upon the kind of\nlife for which he knew himself to be most fitted. And then he merged\nthe whole into business. He said that he knew well the suffering his\nfather had gone through when he had had to give up his drainage works\nfor want of money; that he, Roger, had been enabled at once to raise\nmoney upon the remuneration he was to receive on the accomplishment\nof his two years' work; and that he had also insured his life, in\norder to provide for the repayment of the money he had raised, in\ncase he did not live to return to England. He said that the sum he\nhad borrowed on this security would at once be forwarded to his\nfather.\n\nMr. Gibson laid down the letter without speaking a word for some\ntime; then he said,--\"He'll have to pay a pretty sum for insuring his\nlife beyond seas.\"\n\n\"He's got his Fellowship money,\" said the Squire, a little depressed\nat Mr. Gibson's remark.\n\n\"Yes; that's true. And he's a strong young fellow, as I know.\"\n\n\"I wish I could tell his mother,\" said the Squire in an under-tone.\n\n\"It seems all settled now,\" said Mr. Gibson, more in reply to his own\nthoughts than to the Squire's remark.\n\n\"Yes!\" said the Squire; \"and they're not going to let the grass grow\nunder his feet. He's to be off as soon as he can get his scientific\ntraps ready. I almost wish he wasn't to go. You don't seem quite to\nlike it, doctor?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do,\" said Mr. Gibson in a more cheerful tone than before. \"It\ncan't be helped now without doing a mischief,\" thought he to himself.\n\"Why, Squire, I think it a great honour to have such a son. I envy\nyou, that's what I do. Here's a lad of three or four and twenty\ndistinguishing himself in more ways than one, and as simple and\naffectionate at home as any fellow need to be--not a bit set up.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay; he's twice as much a son to me as Osborne, who has been all\nhis life set up on nothing at all, as one may say.\"\n\n\"Come, Squire, I mustn't hear anything against Osborne; we may praise\none, without hitting at the other. Osborne hasn't had the strong\nhealth which has enabled Roger to work as he has done. I met a man\nwho knew his tutor at Trinity the other day, and of course we began\ncracking about Roger--it's not every day that one can reckon a senior\nwrangler amongst one's friends, and I'm nearly as proud of the lad\nas you are. This Mr. Mason told me the tutor said that only half of\nRoger's success was owing to his mental powers; the other half was\nowing to his perfect health, which enabled him to work harder and\nmore continuously than most men without suffering. He said that in\nall his experience he had never known any one with an equal capacity\nfor mental labour; and that he could come again with a fresh appetite\nto his studies after shorter intervals of rest than most. Now I,\nbeing a doctor, trace a good deal of his superiority to the material\ncause of a thoroughly good constitution, which Osborne hasn't got.\"\n\n\"Osborne might have, if he got out o' doors more,\" said the Squire,\nmoodily; \"but except when he can loaf into Hollingford he doesn't\ncare to go out at all. I hope,\" he continued, with a glance of sudden\nsuspicion at Mr. Gibson, \"he's not after one of your girls? I don't\nmean any offence, you know; but he'll have the estate, and it won't\nbe free, and he must marry money. I don't think I could allow it in\nRoger; but Osborne's the eldest son, you know.\"\n\nMr. Gibson reddened; he was offended for a moment. Then the partial\ntruth of what the Squire said was presented to his mind, and he\nremembered their old friendship, so he spoke quietly, if shortly.\n\n\"I don't believe there's anything of the kind going on. I'm not much\nat home, you know; but I've never heard or seen anything that should\nmake me suppose that there is. When I do, I'll let you know.\"\n\n\"Now, Gibson, don't go and be offended. I'm glad for the boys to have\na pleasant house to go to, and I thank you and Mrs. Gibson for making\nit pleasant. Only keep off love; it can come to no good. That's\nall. I don't believe Osborne will ever earn a farthing to keep a\nwife during my life, and if I were to die to-morrow, she would have\nto bring some money to clear the estate. And if I do speak as I\nshouldn't have done formerly--a little sharp or so--why, it's because\nI've been worried by many a care no one knows anything of.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to take offence,\" said Mr. Gibson, \"but let us\nunderstand each other clearly. If you don't want your sons to come\nas much to my house as they do, tell them so yourself. I like the\nlads, and am glad to see them; but if they do come, you must take the\nconsequences, whatever they are, and not blame me, or them either,\nfor what may happen from the frequent intercourse between two young\nmen and two young women; and what is more, though, as I said, I see\nnothing whatever of the kind you fear at present, and have promised\nto tell you of the first symptoms I do see, yet farther than that\nI won't go. If there's an attachment at any future time, I won't\ninterfere.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't so much mind if Roger fell in love with your Molly. He\ncan fight for himself, you see, and she's an uncommon nice girl. My\npoor wife was so fond of her,\" answered the Squire. \"It's Osborne and\nthe estate I'm thinking of!\"\n\n\"Well, then, tell him not to come near us. I shall be sorry, but you\nwill be safe.\"\n\n\"I'll think about it; but he's difficult to manage. I've always to\nget my blood well up before I can speak my mind to him.\"\n\nMr. Gibson was leaving the room, but at these words he turned and\nlaid his hand on the Squire's arm.\n\n\"Take my advice, Squire. As I said, there's no harm done as yet, as\nfar as I know. Prevention is better than cure. Speak out, but speak\ngently to Osborne, and do it at once. I shall understand how it is if\nhe doesn't show his face for some months in my house. If you speak\ngently to him, he'll take the advice as from a friend. If he can\nassure you there's no danger, of course he'll come just as usual,\nwhen he likes.\"\n\nIt was all very fine giving the Squire this good advice; but as\nOsborne had already formed the very kind of marriage his father most\ndeprecated, it did not act quite as well as Mr. Gibson had hoped. The\nSquire began the conversation with unusual self-control; but he grew\nirritated when Osborne denied his father's right to interfere in any\nmarriage he might contemplate; denied it with a certain degree of\ndoggedness and weariness of the subject that drove the Squire into\none of his passions; and although, on after reflection, he remembered\nthat he had his son's promise and solemn word not to think of either\nCynthia or Molly for his wife, yet the father and son had passed\nthrough one of those altercations which help to estrange men for\nlife. Each had said bitter things to the other; and, if the brotherly\naffection had not been so true between Osborne and Roger, they\ntoo might have become alienated, in consequence of the Squire's\nexaggerated and injudicious comparison of their characters and deeds.\nBut as Roger in his boyhood had loved Osborne too well to be jealous\nof the praise and love which the eldest son, the beautiful brilliant\nlad, had received, to the disparagement of his own plain awkwardness\nand slowness, so now Osborne strove against any feeling of envy or\njealousy with all his might; but his efforts were conscious, Roger's\nhad been the simple consequence of affection, and the end to poor\nOsborne was that he became moody and depressed in mind and body; but\nboth father and son concealed their feelings in Roger's presence.\nWhen he came home just before sailing, busy and happy, the Squire\ncaught his infectious energy, and Osborne looked up and was cheerful.\n\nThere was no time to be lost. He was bound to a hot climate, and must\ntake all advantage possible of the winter months. He was to go first\nto Paris, to have interviews with some of the scientific men there.\nSome of his outfit, instruments, &c., were to follow him to Havre,\nfrom which port he was to embark, after transacting his business in\nParis. The Squire learnt all his arrangements and plans, and even\ntried in after-dinner conversations to penetrate into the questions\ninvolved in the researches his son was about to make. But Roger's\nvisit home could not be prolonged beyond two days.\n\nThe last day he rode into Hollingford earlier than he needed to have\ndone to catch the London coach, in order to bid the Gibsons good-by.\nHe had been too actively busy for some time to have leisure to bestow\nmuch thought on Cynthia; but there was no need for fresh meditation\non that subject. Her image as a prize to be worked for, to be served\nfor seven years, and seven years more, was safe and sacred in his\nheart. It was very bad, this going away, and wishing her good-by\nfor two long years; and he wondered much during his ride how far he\nshould be justified in telling her mother, perhaps in telling her own\nsweet self, what his feelings were without expecting, nay, indeed\nreprobating, any answer on her part. Then she would know at any\nrate how dearly she was beloved by one who was absent; how in all\ndifficulties or dangers the thought of her would be a polar star,\nhigh up in the heavens, and so on, and so on; for with all a lover's\nquickness of imagination and triteness of fancy, he called her\na star, a flower, a nymph, a witch, an angel, or a mermaid, a\nnightingale, a siren, as one or another of her attributes rose up\nbefore him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\nA LOVER'S MISTAKE.\n\n\nIt was afternoon. Molly had gone out for a walk. Mrs. Gibson had been\npaying some calls. Lazy Cynthia had declined accompanying either. A\ndaily walk was not a necessity to her as it was to Molly. On a lovely\nday, or with an agreeable object, or when the fancy took her, she\ncould go as far as any one; but these were exceptional cases; in\ngeneral, she was not disposed to disturb herself from her in-door\noccupations. Indeed, not one of the ladies would have left the house,\nhad they been aware that Roger was in the neighbourhood; for they\nwere aware that he was to come down but once before his departure,\nand that his stay at home then would be but for a short time, and\nthey were all anxious to wish him good-by before his long absence.\nBut they had understood that he was not coming to the Hall until\nthe following week, and therefore they had felt themselves at full\nliberty this afternoon to follow their own devices.\n\nMolly chose a walk that had been a favourite with her ever since she\nwas a child. Something or other had happened just before she left\nhome that made her begin wondering how far it was right for the sake\nof domestic peace to pass over without comment the little deviations\nfrom right that people perceive in those whom they live with. Or\nwhether, as they are placed in families for distinct purposes, not by\nchance merely, there are not duties involved in this aspect of their\nlot in life,--whether by continually passing over failings, their own\nstandard is not lowered,--the practical application of these thoughts\nbeing a dismal sort of perplexity on Molly's part as to whether her\nfather was quite aware of her stepmother's perpetual lapses from\ntruth; and whether his blindness was wilful or not. Then she felt\nbitterly enough that although she was sure as could be that there\nwas no real estrangement between her and her father, yet there were\nperpetual obstacles thrown in the way of their intercourse; and she\nthought with a sigh that if he would but come in with authority, he\nmight cut his way clear to the old intimacy with his daughter, and\nthat they might have all the former walks and talks, and quips and\ncranks, and glimpses of real confidence once again; things that her\nstepmother did not value, yet which she, like the dog in the manger,\nprevented Molly's enjoying. But after all Molly was a girl, not so\nfar removed from childhood; and in the middle of her grave regrets\nand perplexities, her eye was caught by the sight of some fine\nripe blackberries flourishing away high up on the hedge-bank among\nscarlet hips and green and russet leaves. She did not care much for\nblackberries herself; but she had heard Cynthia say that she liked\nthem; and besides there was the charm of scrambling and gathering\nthem; so she forgot all about her troubles, and went climbing up the\nbanks, and clutching at her almost inaccessible prizes, and slipping\ndown again triumphant, to carry them back to the large leaf which was\nto serve her as a basket. One or two of them she tasted, but they\nwere as vapid to her palate as ever. The skirt of her pretty print\ngown was torn out of the gathers, and even with the fruit she had\neaten \"her pretty lips with blackberries were all besmeared and\ndyed,\" when having gathered as many and more than she could possibly\ncarry, she set off home, hoping to escape into her room and mend her\ngown before it had offended Mrs. Gibson's neat eye. The front door\nwas easily opened from the outside, and Molly was out of the clear\nlight of the open air and in the shadow of the hall, when she saw a\nface peep out of the dining-room before she quite recognized whose it\nwas; and then Mrs. Gibson came softly out, sufficiently at least to\nbeckon her into the room. When Molly had entered Mrs. Gibson closed\nthe door. Poor Molly expected a reprimand for her torn gown and\nuntidy appearance, but was soon relieved by the expression of Mrs.\nGibson's face--mysterious and radiant.\n\n\"I've been watching for you, dear. Don't go upstairs into the\ndrawing-room, love. It might be a little interruption just now. Roger\nHamley is there with Cynthia; and I've reason to think--in fact I did\nopen the door unawares, but I shut it again softly, and I don't think\nthey heard me. Isn't it charming? Young love, you know, ah, how sweet\nit is!\"\n\n\"Do you mean that Roger has proposed to Cynthia?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"Not exactly that. But I don't know; of course I know nothing. Only I\ndid hear him say that he had meant to leave England without speaking\nof his love, but that the temptation of seeing her alone had been too\ngreat for him. It was symptomatic, was it not, my dear? And all I\nwanted was to let it come to a crisis without interruption. So I've\nbeen watching for you to prevent your going in and disturbing them.\"\n\n\"But I may go to my own room, mayn't I,\" pleaded Molly.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Mrs. Gibson, a little testily. \"Only I had expected\nsympathy from you at such an interesting moment.\"\n\nBut Molly did not hear these last words. She had escaped upstairs,\nand shut her door. Instinctively she had carried her leaf full of\nblackberries--what would blackberries be to Cynthia now? She felt\nas if she could not understand it all; but as for that matter, what\ncould she understand? Nothing. For a few minutes her brain seemed\nin too great a whirl to comprehend anything but that she was being\ncarried on in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and\ntrees, with as little volition on her part as if she were dead.\nThen the room grew stifling, and instinctively she went to the open\ncasement window, and leant out, gasping for breath. Gradually the\nconsciousness of the soft peaceful landscape stole into her mind, and\nstilled the buzzing confusion. There, bathed in the almost level rays\nof the autumn sunlight, lay the landscape she had known and loved\nfrom childhood; as quiet, as full of low humming life as it had been\nat this hour for many generations. The autumn flowers blazed out in\nthe garden below, the lazy cows were in the meadow beyond, chewing\ntheir cud in the green aftermath; the evening fires had just been\nmade up in the cottages beyond, in preparation for the husband's\nhome-coming, and were sending up soft curls of blue smoke into the\nstill air; the children, let loose from school, were shouting merrily\nin the distance, and she-- Just then she heard nearer sounds; an\nopened door, steps on the lower flight of stairs. He could not\nhave gone without even seeing her. He never, never would have done\nso cruel a thing--never would have forgotten poor little Molly,\nhowever happy he might be! No! there were steps and voices, and the\ndrawing-room door was opened and shut once more. She laid down her\nhead on her arms that rested upon the window-sill, and cried,--she\nhad been so distrustful as to have let the idea enter her mind that\nhe could go without wishing her good-by--her, whom his mother had so\nloved, and called by the name of his little dead sister. And as she\nthought of the tender love Mrs. Hamley had borne her she cried the\nmore, for the vanishing of such love for her off the face of the\nearth. Suddenly the drawing-room door opened, and some one was heard\ncoming upstairs; it was Cynthia's step. Molly hastily wiped her eyes,\nand stood up and tried to look unconcerned; it was all she had time\nto do before Cynthia, after a little pause at the closed door, had\nknocked; and on an answer being given, had said, without opening\nthe door,--\"Molly! Mr. Roger Hamley is here, and wants to wish you\ngood-by before he goes.\" Then she went downstairs again, as if\nanxious just at that moment to avoid even so short a tête-à-tête with\nMolly. With a gulp and a fit of resolution, as a child makes up its\nmind to swallow a nauseous dose of medicine, Molly went instantly\ndownstairs.\n\nRoger was talking earnestly to Mrs. Gibson in the bow of the window\nwhen Molly entered; Cynthia was standing near, listening, but taking\nno part in the conversation. Her eyes were downcast, and she did not\nlook up as Molly drew shyly near.\n\nRoger was saying,--\"I could never forgive myself if I had accepted a\npledge from her. She shall be free until my return; but the hope, the\nwords, her sweet goodness, have made me happy beyond description. Oh,\nMolly!\" suddenly becoming aware of her presence, and turning to her,\nand taking her hand in both of his,--\"I think you have long guessed\nmy secret, have you not? I once thought of speaking to you before I\nleft, and confiding it all to you. But the temptation has been too\ngreat,--I have told Cynthia how fondly I love her, as far as words\ncan tell; and she says--\" then he looked at Cynthia with passionate\ndelight, and seemed to forget in that gaze that he had left his\nsentence to Molly half finished.\n\nCynthia did not seem inclined to repeat her saying, whatever it was,\nbut her mother spoke for her.\n\n\"My dear sweet girl values your love as it ought to be valued, I am\nsure. And I believe,\" looking at Cynthia and Roger with intelligent\narchness, \"I could tell tales as to the cause of her indisposition in\nthe spring.\"\n\n\"Mother,\" said Cynthia suddenly, \"you know it was no such thing. Pray\ndon't invent stories about me. I have engaged myself to Mr. Roger\nHamley, and that is enough.\"\n\n\"Enough! more than enough!\" said Roger. \"I will not accept your\npledge. I am bound, but you are free. I like to feel bound, it makes\nme happy and at peace, but with all the chances involved in the next\ntwo years, you must not shackle yourself by promises.\"\n\nCynthia did not speak at once; she was evidently revolving something\nin her own mind. Mrs. Gibson took up the word.\n\n\"You are very generous, I am sure. Perhaps it will be better not to\nmention it.\"\n\n\"I would much rather have it kept a secret,\" said Cynthia,\ninterrupting.\n\n\"Certainly, my dear love. That was just what I was going to say.\nI once knew a young lady who heard of the death of a young man in\nAmerica, whom she had known pretty well; and she immediately said she\nhad been engaged to him, and even went so far as to put on weeds; and\nit was a false report, for he came back well and merry, and declared\nto everybody he had never so much as thought about her. So it was\nvery awkward for her. These things had much better be kept secret\nuntil the proper time has come for divulging them.\"\n\nEven then and there Cynthia could not resist the temptation of\nsaying,--\"Mamma, I will promise you I won't put on weeds, whatever\nreports come of Mr. Roger Hamley.\"\n\n\"Roger, please!\" he put in, in a tender whisper.\n\n\"And you will all be witnesses that he has professed to think of me,\nif he is tempted afterwards to deny the fact. But at the same time I\nwish it to be kept a secret until his return--and I am sure you will\nall be so kind as to attend to my wish. Please, _Roger!_ Please,\nMolly! Mamma, I must especially beg it of you!\"\n\nRoger would have granted anything when she asked him by that name,\nand in that tone. He took her hand in silent pledge of his reply.\nMolly felt as if she could never bring herself to name the affair\nas a common piece of news. So it was only Mrs. Gibson that answered\naloud,--\n\n\"My dear child! why 'especially' to poor me? You know I'm the most\ntrustworthy person alive!\"\n\nThe little pendule on the chimney-piece struck the half-hour.\n\n\"I must go!\" said Roger, in dismay. \"I had no idea it was so late. I\nshall write from Paris. The coach will be at the George by this time,\nand will only stay five minutes. Dearest Cynthia--\" he took her hand,\nand then, as if the temptation was irresistible, he drew her to him\nand kissed her. \"Only remember you are free!\" said he, as he released\nher and passed on to Mrs. Gibson.\n\n\"If I had considered myself free,\" said Cynthia, blushing a little,\nbut ready with her repartee to the last,--\"if I had thought myself\nfree, do you think I would have allowed that?\"\n\nThen Molly's turn came, and the old brotherly tenderness came back\ninto his look, his voice, his bearing.\n\n\"Molly! you won't forget me, I know; I shall never forget you, nor\nyour goodness to--her.\" His voice began to quiver, and it was best\nto be gone. Mrs. Gibson was pouring out, unheard and unheeded, words\nof farewell; Cynthia was re-arranging some flowers in a vase on the\ntable, the defects in which had caught her artistic eye, without\nthe consciousness penetrating to her mind. Molly stood, numb to the\nheart; neither glad nor sorry, nor anything but stunned. She felt the\nslackened touch of the warm grasping hand; she looked up--for till\nnow her eyes had been downcast, as if there were heavy weights to\ntheir lids--and the place was empty where he had been; his quick\nstep was heard on the stair, the front door was opened and shut;\nand then as quick as lightning Molly ran up to the front attic--the\nlumber-room, whose window commanded the street down which he\nmust pass. The window-clasp was unused and stiff, Molly tugged at\nit--unless it was open, and her head put out, that last chance would\nbe gone.\n\n\"I must see him again; I must! I must!\" she wailed out, as she was\npulling. There he was, running hard to catch the London coach; his\nluggage had been left at the George before he came up to wish the\nGibsons good-by. In all his hurry, Molly saw him turn round and shade\nhis eyes from the level rays of the westering sun, and rake the house\nwith his glances--in hopes, she knew, of catching one more glimpse of\nCynthia. But apparently he saw no one, not even Molly at the attic\ncasement; for she had drawn back when he had turned, and kept herself\nin shadow; for she had no right to put herself forward as the one to\nwatch and yearn for farewell signs. None came--another moment--he was\nout of sight for years!\n\n\n[Illustration: THE LAST TURNING.]\n\n\nShe shut the window softly, and shivered all over. She left the attic\nand went to her own room; but she did not begin to take off her\nout-of-door things till she heard Cynthia's foot on the stairs.\nThen she hastily went to the toilet-table, and began to untie her\nbonnet-strings; but they were in a knot, and took time to undo.\nCynthia's step stopped at Molly's door; she opened it a little and\nsaid,--\"May I come in, Molly?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Molly, longing to be able to say \"No\" all the time.\nMolly did not turn to meet her, so Cynthia came up behind her, and\nputting her two hands round Molly's waist, peeped over her shoulder,\nputting out her lips to be kissed. Molly could not resist the\naction--the mute entreaty for a caress. But, in the moment before,\nshe had caught the reflection of the two faces in the glass; her\nown, red-eyed, pale, with lips dyed with blackberry juice, her curls\ntangled, her bonnet pulled awry, her gown torn--and contrasted it\nwith Cynthia's brightness and bloom, and the trim elegance of her\ndress. \"Oh! it is no wonder!\" thought poor Molly, as she turned\nround, and put her arms round Cynthia, and laid her head for an\ninstant on her shoulder--the weary, aching head that sought a loving\npillow in that supreme moment! The next she had raised herself, and\ntaken Cynthia's two hands, and was holding her off a little, the\nbetter to read her face.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"OH! IT IS NO WONDER!\"]\n\n\n\"Cynthia! you do love him dearly, don't you?\"\n\nCynthia winced a little aside from the penetrating steadiness of\nthose eyes.\n\n\"You speak with all the solemnity of an adjuration, Molly!\" said she,\nlaughing a little at first to cover her nervousness, and then looking\nup at Molly. \"Don't you think I've given a proof of it? But you know\nI've often told you I've not the gift of loving; I said pretty much\nthe same thing to him. I can respect, and I fancy I can admire, and\nI can like, but I never feel carried off my feet by love for any one,\nnot even for you, little Molly, and I'm sure I love you more than--\"\n\n\"No, don't!\" said Molly, putting her hand before Cynthia's mouth, in\nalmost a passion of impatience. \"Don't, don't--I won't hear you--I\nought not to have asked you--it makes you tell lies!\"\n\n\"Why, Molly!\" said Cynthia, in her turn seeking to read Molly's\nface, \"what's the matter with you? One might think you cared for him\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I?\" said Molly, all the blood rushing to her heart suddenly; then it\nreturned, and she had courage to speak, and she spoke the truth as\nshe believed it, though not the real actual truth.\n\n\"I do care for him; I think you have won the love of a prince amongst\nmen. Why, I am proud to remember that he has been to me as a brother,\nand I love him as a sister, and I love you doubly because he has\nhonoured you with his love.\"\n\n\"Come, that's not complimentary!\" said Cynthia, laughing, but\nnot ill-pleased to hear her lover's praises, and even willing to\ndepreciate him a little in order to hear more.\n\n\"He's well enough, I daresay, and a great deal too learned and clever\nfor a stupid girl like me; but even you must acknowledge he's very\nplain and awkward; and I like pretty things and pretty people.\"\n\n\"Cynthia, I won't talk to you about him. You know you don't mean what\nyou are saying, and you only say it out of contradiction, because I\npraise him. He shan't be run down by you, even in joke.\"\n\n\"Well, then, we won't talk of him at all. I was so surprised when\nhe began to speak--so--\" and Cynthia looked very lovely, blushing\nand dimpling up as she remembered his words and looks. Suddenly she\nrecalled herself to the present time, and her eye caught on the leaf\nfull of blackberries--the broad, green leaf, so fresh and crisp when\nMolly had gathered it an hour or so ago, but now soft and flabby, and\ndying. Molly saw it, too, and felt a strange kind of sympathetic pity\nfor the poor inanimate leaf.\n\n\"Oh! what blackberries! you've gathered them for me, I know!\" said\nCynthia, sitting down and beginning to feed herself daintily,\ntouching them lightly with the ends of her taper fingers, and\ndropping each ripe berry into her open mouth. When she had eaten\nabout half she stopped suddenly short.\n\n\"How I should like to have gone as far as Paris with him!\" she\nexclaimed. \"I suppose it wouldn't have been proper; but how pleasant\nit would have been! I remember at Boulogne\" (another blackberry),\n\"how I used to envy the English who were going to Paris; it seemed\nto me then as if nobody stopped at Boulogne, but dull, stupid\nschool-girls.\"\n\n\"When will he be there?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"On Wednesday, he said. I'm to write to him there; at any rate he's\ngoing to write to me.\"\n\nMolly went about the adjustment of her dress in a quiet,\nbusiness-like manner, not speaking much; Cynthia, although sitting\nstill, seemed very restless. Oh! how much Molly wished that she would\ngo.\n\n\"Perhaps, after all,\" said Cynthia, after a pause of apparent\nmeditation, \"we shall never be married.\"\n\n\"Why do you say that?\" said Molly, almost bitterly. \"You have nothing\nto make you think so. I wonder how you can bear to think you won't,\neven for a moment.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Cynthia; \"you mustn't go and take me _au grand sérieux_. I\ndaresay I don't mean what I say, but you see everything seems a dream\nat present. Still, I think the chances are equal--the chances for and\nagainst our marriage, I mean. Two years! it's a long time! he may\nchange his mind, or I may; or some one else may turn up, and I may\nget engaged to him: what should you think of that, Molly? I'm putting\nsuch a gloomy thing as death quite on one side, you see; yet in two\nyears how much may happen!\"\n\n\"Don't talk so, Cynthia, please don't,\" said Molly, piteously. \"One\nwould think you didn't care for him, and he cares so much for you!\"\n\n\"Why, did I say I didn't care for him? I was only calculating\nchances. I'm sure I hope nothing will happen to prevent the marriage.\nOnly, you know it may, and I thought I was taking a step in wisdom,\nin looking forward to all the evils that might befall. I'm sure all\nthe wise people I've ever known thought it a virtue to have gloomy\nprognostics of the future. But you're not in a mood for wisdom or\nvirtue, I see; so I'll go and get ready for dinner, and leave you to\nyour vanities of dress.\"\n\nShe took Molly's face in both her hands, before Molly was aware\nof her intention, and kissed it playfully. Then she left Molly to\nherself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\nTHE MOTHER'S MANOEUVRE.\n\n\nMr. Gibson was not at home at dinner--detained by some patient, most\nprobably. This was not an unusual occurrence; but it _was_ rather an\nunusual occurrence for Mrs. Gibson to go down into the dining-room,\nand sit with him as he ate his deferred meal when he came in an hour\nor two later. In general, she preferred her easy-chair, or her corner\nof the sofa, upstairs in the drawing-room, though it was very rarely\nthat she would allow Molly to avail herself of her stepmother's\nneglected privilege. Molly would fain have gone down and kept her\nfather company every night that he had these solitary meals; but for\npeace and quietness she gave up her own wishes on the matter.\n\nMrs. Gibson took a seat by the fire in the dining-room, and patiently\nwaited for the auspicious moment when Mr. Gibson, having satisfied\nhis healthy appetite, turned from the table, and took his place by\nher side. She got up, and with unaccustomed attention moved the wine\nand glasses so that he could help himself without moving from his\nchair.\n\n\"There, now! are you comfortable? for I have a great piece of news to\ntell you!\" said she, when all was arranged.\n\n\"I thought there was something on hand,\" said he, smiling. \"Now for\nit!\"\n\n\"Roger Hamley has been here this afternoon to bid us good-by.\"\n\n\"Good-by! Is he gone? I didn't know he was going so soon!\" exclaimed\nMr. Gibson.\n\n\"Yes: never mind, that's not it.\"\n\n\"But tell me; has he left this neighbourhood? I wanted to have seen\nhim.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes. He left love and regret, and all that sort of thing\nfor you. Now let me get on with my story: he found Cynthia alone,\nproposed to her, and was accepted.\"\n\n\"Cynthia? Roger proposed to her, and she accepted him?\" repeated Mr.\nGibson, slowly.\n\n\"Yes, to be sure. Why not? you speak as if it was something so very\nsurprising.\"\n\n\"Did I? But I am surprised. He's a very fine young fellow, and I\nwish Cynthia joy; but do you like it? It will have to be a very long\nengagement.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said she, in a knowing manner.\n\n\"At any rate he will be away for two years,\" said Mr. Gibson.\n\n\"A great deal may happen in two years,\" she replied.\n\n\"Yes! he will have to run many risks, and go into many dangers, and\nwill come back no nearer to the power of maintaining a wife than when\nhe went out.\"\n\n\"I don't know that,\" she replied, still in the arch manner of one\npossessing superior knowledge. \"A little bird did tell me that\nOsborne's life is not so very secure; and then--what will Roger be?\nHeir to the estate.\"\n\n\"Who told you that about Osborne?\" said he, facing round upon her,\nand frightening her with his sudden sternness of voice and manner.\nIt seemed as if absolute fire came out of his long dark sombre eyes.\n\"_Who_ told you, I say?\"\n\nShe made a faint rally back into her former playfulness.\n\n\"Why? can you deny it? Is it not the truth?\"\n\n\"I ask you again, Hyacinth, who told you that Osborne Hamley's life\nis in more danger than mine--or yours?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't speak in that frightening way. My life is not in danger,\nI'm sure; nor yours either, love, I hope.\"\n\nHe gave an impatient movement, and knocked a wine-glass off the\ntable. For the moment she felt grateful for the diversion, and\nbusied herself in picking up the fragments: \"bits of glass were so\ndangerous,\" she said. But she was startled by a voice of command,\nsuch as she had never yet heard from her husband.\n\n\"Never mind the glass. I ask you again, Hyacinth, who told you\nanything about Osborne Hamley's state of health?\"\n\n\"I am sure I wish no harm to him, and I daresay he is in very good\nhealth, as you say,\" whispered she, at last.\n\n\"Who told--?\" began he again, sterner than ever.\n\n\"Well, if you will know, and will make such a fuss about it,\" said\nshe, driven to extremity, \"it was you yourself--you or Dr. Nicholls,\nI am sure I forget which.\"\n\n\"I never spoke to you on the subject, and I don't believe Nicholls\ndid. You'd better tell me at once what you're alluding to, for I'm\nresolved I'll have it out before we leave this room.\"\n\n\"I wish I'd never married again,\" she said, now fairly crying, and\nlooking round the room, as if in vain search for a mouse-hole in\nwhich to hide herself. Then, as if the sight of the door into the\nstore-room gave her courage, she turned and faced him.\n\n\"You should not talk your medical secrets so loud then, if you don't\nwant people to hear them. I had to go into the store-room that day\nDr. Nicholls was here; cook wanted a jar of preserve, and stopped me\njust as I was going out--I am sure it was for no pleasure of mine,\nfor I was sadly afraid of stickying my gloves--it was all that you\nmight have a comfortable dinner.\"\n\nShe looked as if she was going to cry again, but he gravely motioned\nher to go on, merely saying,--\n\n\"Well! you overheard our conversation, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Not much,\" she answered eagerly, almost relieved by being thus\nhelped out in her forced confession. \"Only a sentence or two.\"\n\n\"What were they?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why, you had just been saying something, and Dr. Nicholls said, 'If\nhe has got aneurism of the aorta his days are numbered.'\"\n\n\"Well. Anything more?\"\n\n\"Yes; you said, 'I hope to God I may be mistaken; but there is a\npretty clear indication of symptoms, in my opinion.'\"\n\n\"How do you know we were speaking of Osborne Hamley?\" he asked;\nperhaps in hopes of throwing her off the scent. But as soon as she\nperceived that he was descending to her level of subterfuge, she took\ncourage, and said in quite a different tone to the cowed one which\nshe had been using:\n\n\"Oh! I know. I heard his name mentioned by you both before I began to\nlisten.\"\n\n\"Then you own you did listen?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said she, hesitating a little now.\n\n\"And pray how do you come to remember so exactly the name of the\ndisease spoken of?\"\n\n\"Because I went--now don't be angry, I really can't see any harm in\nwhat I did--\"\n\n\"Then, don't deprecate anger. You went--\"\n\n\"Into the surgery, and looked it out. Why might not I?\"\n\nMr. Gibson did not answer--did not look at her. His face was very\npale, and both forehead and lips were contracted. At length he roused\nhimself, sighed, and said,--\n\n\"Well! I suppose as one brews one must bake.\"\n\n\"I don't understand what you mean,\" pouted she.\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" he replied. \"I suppose that it was what you heard on\nthat occasion that made you change your behaviour to Roger Hamley?\nI've noticed how much more civil you were to him of late.\"\n\n\"If you mean that I have ever got to like him as much as Osborne,\nyou are very much mistaken; no, not even though he has offered to\nCynthia, and is to be my son-in-law.\"\n\n\"Let me know the whole affair. You overheard,--I will own that it was\nOsborne about whom we were speaking, though I shall have something to\nsay about that presently--and then, if I understand you rightly, you\nchanged your behaviour to Roger, and made him more welcome to this\nhouse than you had ever done before, regarding him as proximate heir\nto the Hamley estates?\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by 'proximate.'\"\n\n\"Go into the surgery, and look into the dictionary, then,\" said he,\nlosing his temper for the first time during the conversation.\n\n\"I knew,\" said she through sobs and tears, \"that Roger had taken\na fancy to Cynthia; any one might see that; and as long as Roger\nwas only a younger son, with no profession, and nothing but his\nfellowship, I thought it right to discourage him, as any one would\nwho had a grain of common sense in them; for a clumsier, more common,\nawkward, stupid fellow I never saw--to be called 'county,' I mean.\"\n\n\"Take care; you'll have to eat your words presently when you come to\nfancy he'll have Hamley some day.\"\n\n\"No, I shan't,\" said she, not perceiving his exact drift. \"You are\nvexed now because it is not Molly he's in love with; and I call it\nvery unjust and unfair to my poor fatherless girl. I am sure I have\nalways tried to further Molly's interests as if she was my own\ndaughter.\"\n\nMr. Gibson was too indifferent to this accusation to take any notice\nof it. He returned to what was of far more importance to him.\n\n\"The point I want to be clear about is this. Did you or did you not\nalter your behaviour to Roger in consequence of what you overheard of\nmy professional conversation with Dr. Nicholls? Have you not favoured\nhis suit to Cynthia since then, on the understanding gathered from\nthat conversation that he stood a good chance of inheriting Hamley?\"\n\n\"I suppose I did,\" said she, sulkily. \"And if I did, I can't\nsee any harm in it, that I should be questioned as if I were\nin a witness-box. He was in love with Cynthia long before that\nconversation, and she liked him so much. It was not for me to cross\nthe path of true love. I don't see how you would have a mother show\nher love for her child if she may not turn accidental circumstances\nto her advantage. Perhaps Cynthia might have died if she had been\ncrossed in love; her poor father was consumptive.\"\n\n\"Don't you know that all professional conversations are confidential?\nThat it would be the most dishonourable thing possible for me to\nbetray secrets which I learn in the exercise of my profession?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course, you.\"\n\n\"Well! and are not you and I one in all these respects? You cannot do\na dishonourable act without my being inculpated in the disgrace. If\nit would be a deep disgrace for me to betray a professional secret,\nwhat would it be for me to trade on that knowledge?\"\n\nHe was trying hard to be patient; but the offence was of that class\nwhich galled him insupportably.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by trading. Trading in a daughter's\naffections is the last thing I should do; and I should have thought\nyou would be rather glad than otherwise to get Cynthia well married,\nand off your hands.\"\n\nMr. Gibson got up, and walked about the room, his hands in his\npockets. Once or twice he began to speak, but he stopped impatiently\nshort without going on.\n\n\"I don't know what to say to you,\" he said at length. \"You either\ncan't or won't see what I mean. I'm glad enough to have Cynthia here.\nI have given her a true welcome, and I sincerely hope she will find\nthis house as much a home as my own daughter does. But for the future\nI must look out of my doors, and double-lock the approaches if I am\nso foolish as to-- However, that's past and gone; and it remains with\nme to prevent its recurrence as far as I can for the future. Now let\nus hear the present state of affairs.\"\n\n\"I don't think I ought to tell you anything about it. It is a secret,\njust as much as your mysteries are.\"\n\n\"Very well; you have told me enough for me to act upon, which I\nmost certainly shall do. It was only the other day I promised the\nSquire to let him know if I suspected anything--any love affair, or\nentanglement, much less an engagement, between either of his sons and\nour girls.\"\n\n\"But this is not an engagement; he would not let it be so; if you\nwould only listen to me, I could tell you all. Only I do hope you\nwon't go and tell the Squire and everybody. Cynthia did so beg that\nit might not be known. It is only my unfortunate frankness that has\nled me into this scrape. I never could keep a secret from those whom\nI love.\"\n\n\"I must tell the Squire. I shall not mention it to any one else. And\ndo you quite think it was consistent with your general frankness to\nhave overheard what you did, and never to have mentioned it to me?\nI could have told you then that Dr. Nicholls' opinion was decidedly\nopposed to mine, and that he believed that the disturbance about\nwhich I consulted him on Osborne's behalf was merely temporary. Dr.\nNicholls would tell you that Osborne is as likely as any man to live\nand marry and beget children.\"\n\nIf there was any skill used by Mr. Gibson so to word this speech\nas to conceal his own opinion, Mrs. Gibson was not sharp enough to\nfind it out. She was dismayed, and Mr. Gibson enjoyed her dismay; it\nrestored him to something like his usual frame of mind.\n\n\"Let us review this misfortune, for I see you consider it as such,\"\nsaid he.\n\n\"No, not quite a misfortune,\" said she. \"But, certainly, if I had\nknown Dr. Nicholls' opinion--\" she hesitated.\n\n\"You see the advantage of always consulting me,\" he continued\ngravely. \"Here is Cynthia engaged--\"\n\n\"Not engaged, I told you before. He would not allow it to be\nconsidered an engagement on her part.\"\n\n\"Well, entangled in a love-affair with a lad of three-and-twenty,\nwith nothing beyond his fellowship and a chance of inheriting an\nencumbered estate; no profession even, abroad for two years, and\nI must go and tell his father all about it to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Oh dear! Pray say that, if he dislikes it, he has only to express\nhis opinion.\"\n\n\"I don't think you can act without Cynthia in the affair. And if I am\nnot mistaken, Cynthia will have a pretty stout will of her own on the\nsubject.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't think she cares for him very much; she is not one to be\nalways falling in love, and she does not take things very deeply to\nheart. But, of course, one would not do anything abruptly; two years'\nabsence gives one plenty of time to turn oneself in.\"\n\n\"But a little while ago we were threatened with consumption and an\nearly death if Cynthia's affections were thwarted.\"\n\n\"Oh, you dear creature, how you remember all my silly words! It might\nbe, you know. Poor dear Mr. Kirkpatrick was consumptive, and Cynthia\nmay have inherited it, and a great sorrow might bring out the latent\nseeds. At times I am so fearful. But I daresay it is not probable,\nfor I don't think she takes things very deeply to heart.\"\n\n\"Then I'm quite at liberty to give up the affair, acting as Cynthia's\nproxy, if the Squire disapproves of it?\"\n\nPoor Mrs. Gibson was in a strait at this question.\n\n\"No!\" she said at last. \"We cannot give it up. I am sure Cynthia\nwould not; especially if she thought others were acting for her. And\nhe really is very much in love. I wish he were in Osborne's place.\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you what I should do?\" said Mr. Gibson, in real\nearnest. \"However it may have been brought about, here are two young\npeople in love with each other. One is as fine a young fellow as ever\nbreathed; the other a very pretty, lively, agreeable girl. The father\nof the young man must be told, and it is most likely he will bluster\nand oppose; for there is no doubt it is an imprudent affair as far as\nmoney goes. But let them be steady and patient, and a better lot need\nawait no young woman. I only wish it were Molly's good fortune to\nmeet with such another.\"\n\n\"I will try for her; I will indeed,\" said Mrs. Gibson, relieved by\nhis change of tone.\n\n\"No, don't. That's one thing I forbid. I'll have no 'trying' for\nMolly.\"\n\n\"Well, don't be angry, dear! Do you know I was quite afraid you were\ngoing to lose your temper at one time.\"\n\n\"It would have been of no use!\" said he, gloomily, getting up as if\nto close the sitting. His wife was only too glad to make her escape.\nThe conjugal interview had not been satisfactory to either. Mr.\nGibson had been compelled to face and acknowledge the fact, that the\nwife he had chosen had a very different standard of conduct from\nthat which he had upheld all his life, and had hoped to have seen\ninculcated in his daughter. He was more irritated than he chose to\nshow; for there was so much of self-reproach in his irritation that\nhe kept it to himself, brooded over it, and allowed a feeling of\nsuspicious dissatisfaction with his wife to grow up in his mind,\nwhich extended itself by-and-by to the innocent Cynthia, and\ncaused his manner to both mother and daughter to assume a certain\ncurt severity, which took the latter at any rate with extreme\nsurprise. But on the present occasion he followed his wife up to the\ndrawing-room, and gravely congratulated the astonished Cynthia.\n\n\"Has mamma told you?\" said she, shooting an indignant glance at her\nmother. \"It is hardly an engagement; and we all pledged ourselves to\nkeep it a secret, mamma among the rest!\"\n\n\"But, my dearest Cynthia, you could not expect--you could not have\nwished me to keep a secret from my husband?\" pleaded Mrs. Gibson.\n\n\"No, perhaps not. At any rate, sir,\" said Cynthia, turning towards\nhim with graceful frankness, \"I am glad you should know it. You have\nalways been a most kind friend to me, and I daresay I should have\ntold you myself, but I did not want it named; if you please, it must\nstill be a secret. In fact, it is hardly an engagement--he\" (she\nblushed and sparkled a little at the euphuism, which implied that\nthere was but one \"he\" present in her thoughts at the moment) \"would\nnot allow me to bind myself by any promise until his return!\"\n\nMr. Gibson looked gravely at her, irresponsive to her winning looks,\nwhich at the moment reminded him too forcibly of her mother's ways.\nThen he took her hand, and said, seriously enough,--\"I hope you are\nworthy of him, Cynthia, for you have indeed drawn a prize. I have\nnever known a truer or warmer heart than Roger's; and I have known\nhim boy and man.\"\n\nMolly felt as if she could have thanked her father aloud for this\ntestimony to the value of him who was gone away. But Cynthia pouted a\nlittle before she smiled up in his face.\n\n\"You are not complimentary, are you, Mr. Gibson?\" said she. \"He\nthinks me worthy, I suppose; and if you have so high an opinion\nof him, you ought to respect his judgment of me.\" If she hoped to\nprovoke a compliment she was disappointed, for Mr. Gibson let go her\nhand in an absent manner, and sate down in an easy chair by the fire,\ngazing at the wood embers as if hoping to read the future in them.\nMolly saw Cynthia's eyes fill with tears, and followed her to the\nother end of the room, where she had gone to seek some working\nmaterials.\n\n\"Dear Cynthia,\" was all she said; but she pressed her hand while\ntrying to assist in the search.\n\n\"Oh, Molly, I am so fond of your father; what makes him speak so to\nme to-night?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Molly; \"perhaps he's tired.\"\n\nThey were recalled from further conversation by Mr. Gibson. He had\nroused himself from his reverie, and was now addressing Cynthia.\n\n\"I hope you will not consider it a breach of confidence, Cynthia, but\nI must tell the Squire of--of what has taken place to-day between\nyou and his son. I have bound myself by a promise to him. He was\nafraid--it's as well to tell you the truth--he was afraid\" (an\nemphasis on this last word) \"of something of this kind between his\nsons and one of you two girls. It was only the other day I assured\nhim there was nothing of the kind on foot; and I told him then I\nwould inform him at once if I saw any symptoms.\"\n\nCynthia looked extremely annoyed.\n\n\"It was the one thing I stipulated for--secrecy.\"\n\n\"But why?\" said Mr. Gibson. \"I can understand your not wishing to\nhave it made public under the present circumstances. But the nearest\nfriends on both sides! Surely you can have no objection to that?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have,\" said Cynthia; \"I would not have had any one know if I\ncould have helped it.\"\n\n\"I'm almost certain Roger will tell his father.\"\n\n\"No, he won't,\" said Cynthia; \"I made him promise, and I think he is\none to respect a promise\"--with a glance at her mother, who, feeling\nherself in disgrace with both husband and child, was keeping a\njudicious silence.\n\n\"Well, at any rate, the story would come with so much better a grace\nfrom him that I shall give him the chance; I won't go over to the\nHall till the end of the week; he may have written and told his\nfather before then.\"\n\nCynthia held her tongue for a little while. Then she said, with\ntearful pettishness,--\n\n\"A man's promise is to override a woman's wish, then, is it?\"\n\n\"I don't see any reason why it should not.\"\n\n\"Will you trust in my reasons when I tell you it will cause me\na great deal of distress if it gets known?\" She said this in so\npleading a voice, that if Mr. Gibson had not been thoroughly\ndispleased and annoyed by his previous conversation with her mother,\nhe must have yielded to her. As it was, he said, coldly,--\"Telling\nRoger's father is not making it public. I don't like this exaggerated\ndesire for such secrecy, Cynthia. It seems to me as if something more\nthan is apparent was concealed behind it.\"\n\n\"Come, Molly,\" said Cynthia, suddenly; \"let us sing that duet I've\nbeen teaching you; it's better than talking as we are doing.\"\n\nIt was a little lively French duet. Molly sang it carelessly, with\nheaviness at her heart; but Cynthia sang it with spirit and apparent\nmerriment; only she broke down in hysterics at last, and flew\nupstairs to her own room. Molly, heeding nothing else--neither her\nfather nor Mrs. Gibson's words--followed her, and found the door of\nher bedroom locked, and for all reply to her entreaties to be allowed\nto come in, she heard Cynthia sobbing and crying.\n\nIt was more than a week after the incidents just recorded before\nMr. Gibson found himself at liberty to call on the Squire; and he\nheartily hoped that long before then, Roger's letter might have\narrived from Paris, telling his father the whole story. But he saw at\nthe first glance that the Squire had heard nothing unusual to disturb\nhis equanimity. He was looking better than he had done for months\npast; the light of hope was in his eyes, his face seemed of a healthy\nruddy colour, gained partly by his resumption of outdoor employment\nin the superintendence of the works, and partly because the happiness\nhe had lately had through Roger's means, caused his blood to flow\nwith regular vigour. He had felt Roger's going away, it is true; but\nwhenever the sorrow of parting with him pressed too heavily upon him,\nhe filled his pipe, and smoked it out over a long, slow, deliberate,\nre-perusal of Lord Hollingford's letter, every word of which he knew\nby heart; but expressions in which he made a pretence to himself\nof doubting, that he might have an excuse for looking at his son's\npraises once again. The first greetings over, Mr. Gibson plunged into\nhis subject.\n\n\"Any news from Roger yet?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; here's his letter,\" said the Squire, producing his black\nleather case, in which Roger's missive had been placed along with the\nother very heterogeneous contents.\n\nMr. Gibson read it, hardly seeing the words after he had by one rapid\nglance assured himself that there was no mention of Cynthia in it.\n\n\"Hum! I see he doesn't name one very important event that has\nbefallen him since he left you,\" said Mr. Gibson, seizing on the\nfirst words that came. \"I believe I'm committing a breach of\nconfidence on one side; but I'm going to keep the promise I made\nthe last time I was here. I find there is something--something\nof the kind you apprehended--you understand--between him and my\nstep-daughter, Cynthia Kirkpatrick. He called at our house to wish\nus good-by, while waiting for the London coach, found her alone, and\nspoke to her. They don't call it an engagement, but of course it is\none.\"\n\n\"Give me back the letter,\" said the Squire, in a constrained kind of\nvoice. Then he read it again, as if he had not previously mastered\nits contents, and as if there might be some sentence or sentences he\nhad overlooked.\n\n\"No!\" he said at last, with a sigh. \"He tells me nothing about it.\nLads may play at confidences with their fathers, but they keep a deal\nback.\" The Squire appeared more disappointed at not having heard of\nthis straight from Roger than displeased at the fact itself, Mr.\nGibson thought. But he let him take his time.\n\n\"He's not the eldest son,\" continued the Squire, talking as it\nwere to himself. \"But it's not the match I should have planned\nfor him. How came you, sir,\" said he, firing round on Mr. Gibson,\nsuddenly--\"to say when you were last here, that there was nothing\nbetween my sons and either of your girls? Why, this must have been\ngoing on all the time!\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it was. But I was as ignorant about it as the babe\nunborn. I only heard of it on the evening of the day of Roger's\ndeparture.\"\n\n\"And that's a week ago, sir. What's kept you quiet ever since?\"\n\n\"I thought that Roger would tell you himself.\"\n\n\"That shows you've no sons. More than half their life is unknown to\ntheir fathers. Why, Osborne there, we live together--that's to say,\nwe have our meals together, and we sleep under the same roof--and\nyet--Well! well! life is as God has made it. You say it's not an\nengagement yet? But I wonder what I'm doing? Hoping for my lad's\ndisappointment in the folly he's set his heart on--and just when he's\nbeen helping me. Is it a folly, or is it not? I ask you, Gibson, for\nyou must know this girl. She hasn't much money, I suppose?\"\n\n\"About thirty pounds a year, at my pleasure during her mother's\nlife.\"\n\n\"Whew! It's well he's not Osborne. They'll have to wait. What family\nis she of? None of 'em in trade, I reckon, from her being so poor?\"\n\n\"I believe her father was grandson of a certain Sir Gerald\nKirkpatrick. Her mother tells me it is an old baronetcy. I know\nnothing of such things.\"\n\n\"That's something. I do know something of such things, as you are\npleased to call them. I like honourable blood.\"\n\nMr. Gibson could not help saying, \"But I'm afraid that only\none-eighth of Cynthia's blood is honourable; I know nothing further\nof her relations excepting the fact that her father was a curate.\"\n\n\"Professional. That's a step above trade at any rate. How old is\nshe?\"\n\n\"Eighteen or nineteen.\"\n\n\"Pretty?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so; most people do; but it's all a matter of taste.\nCome, Squire, judge for yourself. Ride over and take lunch with us\nany day you like. I may not be in; but her mother will be there, and\nyou can make acquaintance with your son's future wife.\"\n\nThis was going too fast, however; presuming too much on the quietness\nwith which the Squire had been questioning him. Mr. Hamley drew back\nwithin his shell, and spoke in a surly manner as he replied,--\n\n\"Roger's 'future wife!' He'll be wiser by the time he comes home. Two\nyears among the black folk will have put more sense in him.\"\n\n\"Possible, but not probable, I should say,\" replied Mr. Gibson.\n\"Black folk are not remarkable for their powers of reasoning, I\nbelieve, so that they haven't much chance of altering his opinion\nby argument, even if they understood each other's language; and\ncertainly if he shares my taste, their peculiarity of complexion will\nonly make him appreciate white skins the more.\"\n\n\"But you said it was no engagement,\" growled the Squire. \"If he\nthinks better of it, you won't keep him to it, will you?\"\n\n\"If he wishes to break it off, I shall certainly advise Cynthia to\nbe equally willing, that's all I can say. And I see no reason for\ndiscussing the affair further at present. I've told you how matters\nstand because I promised you I would, if I saw anything of this kind\ngoing on. But in the present condition of things, we can neither make\nnor mar; we can only wait.\" And he took up his hat to go. But the\nSquire was discontented.\n\n\"Don't go, Gibson. Don't take offence at what I've said, though I'm\nsure I don't know why you should. What's the girl like in herself?\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" said Mr. Gibson. But he did; only he\nwas vexed, and did not choose to understand.\n\n\"Is she--well, is she like your Molly?--sweet-tempered and\nsensible--with her gloves always mended, and neat about the feet, and\nready to do anything one asks her just as if doing it was the very\nthing she liked best in the world?\"\n\nMr. Gibson's face relaxed now, and he could understand all the\nSquire's broken sentences and unexplained meanings.\n\n\"She is much prettier than Molly to begin with, and has very winning\nways. She's always well-dressed and smart-looking, and I know she\nhasn't much to spend on her clothes, and always does what she's asked\nto do, and is ready enough with her pretty, lively answers. I don't\nthink I ever saw her out of temper; but then I'm not sure if she\ntakes things keenly to heart, and a certain obtuseness of feeling\ngoes a great way towards a character for good temper, I've observed.\nAltogether I think Cynthia is one in a hundred.\"\n\nThe Squire meditated a little. \"Your Molly is one in a thousand, to\nmy mind. But then, you see, she comes of no family at all,--and I\ndon't suppose she'll have a chance of much money.\" This he said as if\nhe were thinking aloud, and without reference to Mr. Gibson, but it\nnettled the latter, and he replied somewhat impatiently,--\n\n\"Well, but as there's no question of Molly in this business, I don't\nsee the use of bringing her name in, and considering either her\nfamily or her fortune.\"\n\n\"No, to be sure not,\" said the Squire, rousing up. \"My wits had gone\nfar afield, and I'll own I was only thinking what a pity it was she\nwouldn't do for Osborne. But, of course, it's out of the\nquestion--out of the question.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Gibson, \"and if you will excuse me, Squire, I really\nmust go now, and then you'll be at liberty to send your wits afield\nuninterrupted.\" This time he was at the door before the Squire\ncalled him back. He stood impatiently hitting his top-boots with his\nriding-whip, waiting for the interminable last words.\n\n\"I say, Gibson, we're old friends, and you're a fool if you take\nanything I say as an offence. Madam your wife and I didn't hit it off\nthe only time I ever saw her. I won't say she was silly, but I think\none of us was silly, and it wasn't me. However, we'll pass that over.\nSuppose you bring her, and this girl Cynthia (which is as outlandish\na Christian name as I'd wish to hear), and little Molly out here to\nlunch some day,--I'm more at my ease in my own house,--and I'm more\nsure to be civil, too. We need say nothing about Roger,--neither the\nlass nor me,--and you keep your wife's tongue quiet, if you can. It\nwill only be like a compliment to you on your marriage, you know--and\nno one must take it for anything more. Mind, no allusion or mention\nof Roger, and this piece of folly. I shall see the girl then, and\nI can judge her for myself; for, as you say, that will be the best\nplan. Osborne will be here too; and he's always in his element\ntalking to women. I sometimes think he's half a woman himself, he\nspends so much money and is so unreasonable.\"\n\nThe Squire was pleased with his own speech and his own thought, and\nsmiled a little as he finished speaking. Mr. Gibson was both pleased\nand amused; and he smiled too, anxious as he was to be gone. The next\nThursday was soon fixed upon as the day on which Mr. Gibson was to\nbring his womenkind out to the Hall. He thought that, on the whole,\nthe interview had gone off a good deal better than he had expected,\nand felt rather proud of the invitation of which he was the bearer.\nTherefore Mrs. Gibson's manner of receiving it was an annoyance to\nhim. She, meanwhile, had been considering herself as an injured woman\never since the evening of the day of Roger's departure; what business\nhad any one had to speak as if the chances of Osborne's life being\nprolonged were infinitely small, if in fact the matter was uncertain?\nShe liked Osborne extremely, much better than Roger; and would gladly\nhave schemed to secure him for Cynthia, if she had not shrunk from\nthe notion of her daughter's becoming a widow. For if Mrs. Gibson had\never felt anything acutely it was the death of Mr. Kirkpatrick; and,\namiably callous as she was in most things, she recoiled from exposing\nher daughter wilfully to the same kind of suffering which she herself\nhad experienced. But if she had only known Dr. Nicholls' opinion she\nwould never have favoured Roger's suit; never. And then Mr. Gibson\nhimself; why was he so cold and reserved in his treatment of her\nsince that night of explanation? She had done nothing wrong; yet she\nwas treated as though she were in disgrace. And everything about\nthe house was flat just now. She even missed the little excitement\nof Roger's visits, and the watching of his attentions to Cynthia.\nCynthia too was silent enough; and as for Molly, she was absolutely\ndull and out of spirits, a state of mind so annoying to Mrs. Gibson\njust now, that she vented some of her discontent upon the poor girl,\nfrom whom she feared neither complaint nor repartee.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\nDOMESTIC DIPLOMACY.\n\n\nThe evening of the day on which Mr. Gibson had been to see the\nSquire, the three women were alone in the drawing-room, for Mr.\nGibson had had a long round and was not as yet come in. They had had\nto wait dinner for him; and for some time after his return there was\nnothing done or said but what related to the necessary business of\neating. Mr. Gibson was, perhaps, as well satisfied with his day's\nwork as any of the four; for this visit to the Squire had been\nweighing on his mind ever since he had heard of the state of things\nbetween Roger and Cynthia. He did not like the having to go and\ntell of a love-affair so soon after he had declared his belief\nthat no such thing existed; it was a confession of fallibility\nwhich is distasteful to most men. If the Squire had not been of\nso unsuspicious and simple a nature, he might have drawn his own\nconclusions from the apparent concealment of facts, and felt doubtful\nof Mr. Gibson's perfect honesty in the business; but being what\nhe was, there was no danger of such unjust misapprehension. Still\nMr. Gibson knew the hot hasty temper he had to deal with, and had\nexpected more violence of language than he really encountered; and\nthe last arrangement by which Cynthia, her mother, and Molly--who, as\nMr. Gibson thought to himself, and smiled at the thought, was sure to\nbe a peacemaker, and a sweetener of intercourse--were to go to the\nHall and make acquaintance with the Squire, appeared like a great\nsuccess to Mr. Gibson, for achieving which he took not a little\ncredit to himself. Altogether, he was more cheerful and bland than he\nhad been for many days; and when he came up into the drawing-room for\na few minutes after dinner, before going out again to see his town\npatients, he whistled a little under his breath, as he stood with his\nback to the fire, looking at Cynthia, and thinking that he had not\ndone her justice when describing her to the Squire. Now this soft,\nalmost tuneless whistling, was to Mr. Gibson what purring is to a\ncat. He could no more have done it with an anxious case on his mind,\nor when he was annoyed by human folly, or when he was hungry, than\nhe could have flown through the air. Molly knew all this by instinct,\nand was happy without being aware of it, as soon as she heard the low\nwhistle which was no music after all. But Mrs. Gibson did not like\nthis trick of her husband's; it was not refined she thought, not even\n\"artistic;\" if she could have called it by this fine word it would\nhave compensated her for the want of refinement. To-night it was\nparticularly irritating to her nerves; but since her conversation\nwith Mr. Gibson about Cynthia's engagement, she had not felt herself\nin a sufficiently good position to complain.\n\nMr. Gibson began,--\"Well, Cynthia; I've seen the Squire to-day, and\nmade a clean breast of it.\"\n\nCynthia looked up quickly, questioning with her eyes; Molly stopped\nher netting to listen; no one spoke.\n\n\"You're all to go there on Thursday to lunch; he asked you all, and I\npromised for you.\"\n\nStill no reply; natural, perhaps, but very flat.\n\n\"You'll be glad of that, Cynthia, shan't you?\" asked Mr. Gibson. \"It\nmay be a little formidable, but I hope it will be the beginning of a\ngood understanding between you.\"\n\n\"Thank you!\" said she, with an effort. \"But--but won't it make it\npublic? I do so wish not to have it known, or talked about, not till\nhe comes back or close upon the marriage.\"\n\n\"I don't see how it should make it public,\" said Mr. Gibson. \"My\nwife goes to lunch with my friend, and takes her daughters with\nher--there's nothing in that, is there?\"\n\n\"I am not sure that I shall go,\" put in Mrs. Gibson. She did not\nknow why she said it, for she fully intended to go all the time; but\nhaving said it, she was bound to stick to it for a little while; and,\nwith such a husband as hers, the hard necessity was sure to fall upon\nher of having to find a reason for her saying. Then it came, quick\nand sharp.\n\n\"Why not?\" said he, turning round upon her.\n\n\"Oh, because--because I think he ought to have called on Cynthia\nfirst; I've that sort of sensitiveness I can't bear to think of her\nbeing slighted because she is poor.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Mr. Gibson. \"I do assure you, no slight whatever\nwas intended. He does not wish to speak about the engagement to any\none--not even to Osborne--that's your wish, too, isn't it, Cynthia?\nNor does he intend to mention it to any of you when you go there;\nbut, naturally enough, he wants to make acquaintance with his future\ndaughter-in-law. If he deviated so much from his usual course as to\ncome calling here--\"\n\n\"I am sure I don't want him to come calling here,\" said Mrs. Gibson,\ninterrupting. \"He was not so very agreeable the only time he did\ncome. But I am that sort of a character that I cannot put up with\nany neglect of persons I love, just because they are not smiled upon\nby fortune.\" She sighed a little ostentatiously as she ended her\nsentence.\n\n\"Well, then, you won't go!\" said Mr. Gibson, provoked, but not\nwishing to have a long discussion, especially as he felt his temper\ngoing.\n\n\"Do you wish it, Cynthia?\" said Mrs. Gibson, anxious for an excuse to\nyield.\n\nBut her daughter was quite aware of this motive for the question, and\nreplied quietly,--\"Not particularly, mamma. I am quite willing to\nrefuse the invitation.\"\n\n\"It is already accepted,\" said Mr. Gibson, almost ready to vow\nthat he would never again meddle in any affair in which women were\nconcerned, which would effectually shut him out from all love-affairs\nfor the future. He had been touched by the Squire's relenting,\npleased with what he had thought would give others pleasure, and this\nwas the end of it!\n\n\"Oh, do go, Cynthia!\" said Molly, pleading with her eyes as well as\nher words. \"Do; I am sure you will like the Squire; and it is such a\npretty place, and he'll be so much disappointed.\"\n\n\"I should not like to give up my dignity,\" said Cynthia, demurely.\n\"And you heard what mamma said!\"\n\nIt was very malicious of her. She fully intended to go, and was\nequally sure that her mother was already planning her dress for the\noccasion in her own mind. Mr. Gibson, however, who, surgeon though\nhe was, had never learnt to anatomize a woman's heart, took it all\nliterally, and was excessively angry both with Cynthia and her\nmother; so angry that he did not dare to trust himself to speak. He\nwent quickly to the door, intending to leave the room; but his wife's\nvoice arrested him; she said,--\n\n\"My dear, do you wish me to go? if you do, I will put my own feelings\non one side.\"\n\n\"Of course I do!\" he said, short and stern, and left the room.\n\n\"Then I'll go!\" said she, in the voice of a victim--those words were\nmeant for him, but he hardly heard them. \"And we'll have a fly from\nthe 'George,' and get a livery-coat for Thomas, which I've long been\nwanting, only dear Mr. Gibson did not like it, but on an occasion\nlike this I'm sure he won't mind; and Thomas shall go on the box,\nand--\"\n\n\"But, mamma, I've my feelings too,\" said Cynthia.\n\n\"Nonsense, child! when all is so nicely arranged too.\"\n\nSo they went on the day appointed. Mr. Gibson was aware of the change\nof plans, and that they were going after all; but he was so much\nannoyed by the manner in which his wife had received an invitation\nthat appeared to him so much kinder than he had expected from his\nprevious knowledge of the Squire, and his wishes on the subject of\nhis sons' marriage, that Mrs. Gibson heard neither interest nor\ncuriosity expressed by her husband as to the visit itself, or the\nreception they met with. Cynthia's indifference as to whether the\ninvitation was accepted or not had displeased Mr. Gibson. He was not\nup to her ways with her mother, and did not understand how much of\nthis said indifference had been assumed in order to countervent Mrs.\nGibson's affectation and false sentiment. But for all his annoyance\non the subject, he was, in fact, very curious to know how the visit\nhad gone off, and took the first opportunity of being alone with\nMolly to question her about the lunch of the day before at Hamley\nHall.\n\n\"And so you went to Hamley yesterday after all?\"\n\n\"Yes; I thought you would have come. The Squire seemed quite to\nexpect you.\"\n\n\"I thought of going there at first; but I changed my mind like\nother people. I don't see why women are to have a monopoly of\nchangeableness. Well! how did it go off? Pleasantly, I suppose, for\nboth your mother and Cynthia were in high spirits last night.\"\n\n\"Yes. The dear old Squire was in his best dress and on his best\nbehaviour, and was so prettily attentive to Cynthia, and she looked\nso lovely, walking about with him, and listening to all his talk\nabout the garden and farm. Mamma was tired, and stopped in-doors, so\nthey got on very well, and saw a great deal of each other.\"\n\n\"And my little girl trotted behind?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. You know I was almost at home, and besides--of course--\"\nMolly went very red, and left the sentence unfinished.\n\n\"Do you think she's worthy of him?\" asked her father, just as if she\nhad completed her speech.\n\n\"Of Roger, papa? oh, who is? But she is very sweet, and very, very\ncharming.\"\n\n\"Very charming if you will, but somehow I don't quite understand her.\nWhy does she want all this secrecy? Why was she not more eager to go\nand pay her duty to Roger's father? She took it as coolly as if I'd\nasked her to go to church!\"\n\n\"I don't think she did take it coolly; I believe I don't quite\nunderstand her either, but I love her dearly all the same.\"\n\n\"Umph; I like to understand people thoroughly, but I know it's not\nnecessary to women. D'ye really think she's worthy of him?\"\n\n\"Oh, papa--\" said Molly, and then she stopped; she wanted to speak in\nfavour of Cynthia, but somehow she could form no reply that pleased\nher to this repeated inquiry. He did not seem much to care whether he\ngot an answer or not, for he went on with his own thoughts, and the\nresult was that he asked Molly if Cynthia had heard from Roger.\n\n\"Yes; on Wednesday morning.\"\n\n\"Did she show it to you? But of course not. Besides, I read the\nSquire's letter, which told all about him.\"\n\nNow Cynthia, rather to Molly's surprise, had told her that she might\nread the letter if she liked, and Molly had shrunk from availing\nherself of the permission, for Roger's sake. She thought that he\nwould probably have poured out his heart to the one sole person, and\nthat it was not fair to listen, as it were, to his confidences.\n\n\"Was Osborne at home?\" asked Mr. Gibson. \"The Squire said he did\nnot think he would have come back; but the young fellow is so\nuncertain--\"\n\n\"No, he was still from home.\" Then Molly blushed all over crimson,\nfor it suddenly struck her that Osborne was probably with his\nwife--that mysterious wife, of whose existence she was cognizant,\nbut of whom she knew so little, and of whom her father knew nothing.\nMr. Gibson noticed the blush with anxiety. What did it mean? It was\ntroublesome enough to find that one of the Squire's precious sons\nhad fallen in love within the prohibited ranks; and what would not\nhave to be said and done if anything fresh were to come out between\nOsborne and Molly? He spoke out at once to relieve himself of this\nnew apprehension.\n\n\"Molly, I was taken by surprise by this affair between Cynthia and\nRoger Hamley--if there's anything more on the tapis let me know at\nonce, honestly and openly. I know it's an awkward question for you to\nreply to; but I wouldn't ask it unless I had good reasons.\" He took\nher hand as he spoke. She looked up at him with clear, truthful eyes,\nwhich filled with tears as she spoke. She did not know why the tears\ncame; perhaps it was because she was not so strong as formerly.\n\n\"If you mean that you're afraid that Osborne thinks of me as Roger\nthinks of Cynthia, papa, you are quite mistaken. Osborne and I are\nfriends and nothing more, and never can be anything more. That's all\nI can tell you.\"\n\n\"It's quite enough, little one. It's a great relief. I don't want to\nhave my Molly carried off by any young man just yet; I should miss\nher sadly.\" He could not help saying this in the fulness of his heart\njust then, but he was surprised at the effect these few tender words\nproduced. Molly threw her arms round his neck, and began to sob\nbitterly, her head lying on his shoulder. \"There, there!\" said he,\npatting her on the back, and leading her to the sofa, \"that will do.\nI get quite enough of tears in the day, shed for real causes, not to\nwant them at home, where, I hope, they are shed for no cause at all.\nThere's nothing really the matter, is there, my dear?\" he continued,\nholding her a little away from him that he might look in her face.\nShe smiled at him through her tears; and he did not see the look of\nsadness which returned to her face after he had left her.\n\n\"Nothing, dear, dear papa--nothing now. It is such a comfort to have\nyou all to myself--it makes me happy.\"\n\nMr. Gibson knew all implied in these words, and felt that there was\nno effectual help for the state of things which had arisen from his\nown act. It was better for them both that they should not speak out\nmore fully. So he kissed her, and said,--\n\n\"That's right, dear! I can leave you in comfort now, and indeed I've\nstayed too long already gossiping. Go out and have a walk--take\nCynthia with you, if you like. I must be off. Good-by, little one.\"\n\nHis commonplace words acted like an astringent on Molly's relaxed\nfeelings. He intended that they should do so; it was the truest\nkindness to her; but he walked away from her with a sharp pang at his\nheart, which he stunned into numbness as soon as he could by throwing\nhimself violently into the affairs and cares of others.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\nA FLUKE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nThe honour and glory of having a lover of her own was soon to fall\nto Molly's share; though, to be sure, it was a little deduction from\nthe honour that the man who came with the full intention of proposing\nto her, ended by making Cynthia an offer. It was Mr. Coxe, who came\nback to Hollingford to follow out the purpose he had announced to Mr.\nGibson nearly two years before, of inducing Molly to become his wife\nas soon as he should have succeeded to his uncle's estate. He was now\na rich, though still a red-haired, young man. He came to the George\nInn, bringing his horses and his groom; not that he was going to ride\nmuch, but that he thought such outward signs of his riches might help\non his suit; and he was so justly modest in his estimation of himself\nthat he believed that he needed all extraneous aid. He piqued himself\non his constancy; and indeed, considering that he had been so much\nrestrained by his duty, his affection, and his expectations to his\ncrabbed old uncle, that he had not been able to go much into society,\nand very rarely indeed into the company of young ladies, such\nfidelity to Molly was very meritorious, at least in his own eyes. Mr.\nGibson too was touched by it, and made it a point of honour to give\nhim a fair field, all the time sincerely hoping that Molly would not\nbe such a goose as to lend a willing ear to a youth who could never\nremember the difference between apophysis and epiphysis. He thought\nit as well not to tell his wife more of Mr. Coxe's antecedents than\nthat he had been a former pupil; who had relinquished (\"all that he\nknew of,\" understood) the medical profession because an old uncle\nhad left him enough of money to be idle. Mrs. Gibson, who felt that\nshe had somehow lost her place in her husband's favour, took it into\nher head that she could reinstate herself if she was successful\nin finding a good match for his daughter Molly. She knew that her\nhusband had forbidden her to try for this end, as distinctly as\nwords could express a meaning; but her own words so seldom expressed\nher meaning, or if they did, she held to her opinions so loosely,\nthat she had no idea but that it was the same with other people.\nAccordingly she gave Mr. Coxe a very sweet and gracious welcome.\n\n\"It is such a pleasure to me to make acquaintance with the former\npupils of my husband. He has spoken to me so often of you that I\nquite feel as if you were one of the family, as indeed I am sure that\nMr. Gibson considers you.\"\n\nMr. Coxe felt much flattered, and took the words as a happy omen for\nhis love-affair. \"Is Miss Gibson in?\" asked he, blushing violently.\n\"I knew her formerly--that is to say, I lived in the same house\nwith her, for more than two years, and it would be a great pleasure\nto--to--\"\n\n\"Certainly, I am sure she will be so glad to see you. I sent her\nand Cynthia--you don't know my daughter Cynthia, I think, Mr. Coxe?\nshe and Molly are such great friends--out for a brisk walk this\nfrosty day, but I think they will soon come back.\" She went on saying\nagreeable nothings to the young man, who received her attentions\nwith a certain complacency, but was all the time much more engaged\nin listening to the well-remembered click at the front door,--the\nshutting it to again with household care, and the sound of the\nfamiliar bounding footstep on the stair. At last they came. Cynthia\nentered first, bright and blooming, fresh colour in her cheeks and\nlips, fresh brilliance in her eyes. She looked startled at the sight\nof a stranger, and for an instant she stopped short at the door, as\nif taken by surprise. Then in came Molly softly behind her, smiling,\nhappy, dimpled; but not such a glowing beauty as Cynthia.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Coxe, is it you?\" said she, going up to him with an\noutstretched hand, and greeting him with simple friendliness.\n\n\"Yes; it seems such a long time since I saw you. You are so much\ngrown--so much--well, I suppose I mustn't say what,\" he replied,\nspeaking hurriedly, and holding her hand all the time, rather to\nher discomfiture. Then Mrs. Gibson introduced her daughter, and the\ntwo girls spoke of the enjoyment of their walk. Mr. Coxe marred his\ncause in that very first interview, if indeed he ever could have\nhad any chance, by his precipitancy in showing his feelings, and\nMrs. Gibson helped him to mar it by trying to assist him. Molly lost\nher open friendliness of manner, and began to shrink away from him\nin a way which he thought was a very ungrateful return for all his\nfaithfulness to her these two years past; and after all she was not\nthe wonderful beauty his fancy or his love had painted her. That Miss\nKirkpatrick was far more beautiful and much easier of access. For\nCynthia put on all her pretty airs--her look of intent interest in\nwhat any one was saying to her, let the subject be what it would,\nas if it was the thing she cared most about in the whole world; her\nunspoken deference; in short, all the unconscious ways she possessed\nby instinct of tickling the vanity of men. So while Molly quietly\nrepelled him, Cynthia drew him to her by her soft attractive ways;\nand his constancy fell before her charms. He was thankful that he had\nnot gone too far with Molly, and grateful to Mr. Gibson for having\nprohibited all declarations two years ago; for Cynthia, and Cynthia\nalone, could make him happy. After a fortnight's time, during which\nhe had entirely veered round in his allegiance, he thought it\ndesirable to speak to Mr. Gibson. He did so with a certain sense\nof exultation in his own correct behaviour in the affair, but at\nthe same time feeling rather ashamed of the confession of his own\nchangeableness which was naturally involved. Now it had so happened\nthat Mr. Gibson had been unusually little at home during the\nfortnight that Mr. Coxe had ostensibly lodged at the \"George,\" but\nin reality had spent the greater part of his time at Mr. Gibson's\nhouse--so that he had seen very little of his former pupil, and on\nthe whole he had thought him improved, especially after Molly's\nmanner had made her father pretty sure that Mr. Coxe stood no chance\nin that quarter. But Mr. Gibson was quite ignorant of the attraction\nwhich Cynthia had had for the young man. If he had perceived it, he\nwould have nipped it in the bud pretty quickly, for he had no notion\nof any girl, even though only partially engaged to one man, receiving\noffers from others, if a little plain speaking could prevent it. Mr.\nCoxe had asked for a private interview; they were sitting in the old\nsurgery, now called the consulting-room, but still retaining so much\nof its former self as to be the last place in which Mr. Coxe could\nfeel himself at ease. He was red up to the very roots of his red\nhair, and kept turning his glossy new hat round and round in his\nfingers, unable to find out the proper way of beginning his sentence,\nso at length he plunged in, grammar or no grammar.\n\n\"Mr. Gibson, I daresay you'll be surprised, I'm sure I am at--at what\nI want to say; but I think it's the part of an honourable man, as you\nsaid yourself, sir, a year or two ago, to--to speak to the father\nfirst, and as you, sir, stand in the place of a father to Miss\nKirkpatrick, I should like to express my feelings, my hopes, or\nperhaps I should say wishes, in short--\"\n\n\"Miss Kirkpatrick?\" said Mr. Gibson, a good deal surprised.\n\n\"Yes, sir!\" continued Mr. Coxe, rushing on now he had got so far. \"I\nknow it may appear inconstant and changeable, but I do assure you, I\ncame here with a heart as faithful to your daughter as ever beat in a\nman's bosom. I most fully intended to offer myself and all that I had\nto her acceptance before I left; but really, sir, if you had seen her\nmanner to me every time I endeavoured to press my suit a little--it\nwas more than coy, it was absolutely repellent, there could be no\nmistaking it,--while Miss Kirkpatrick--\" he looked modestly down, and\nsmoothed the nap of his hat, smiling a little while he did so.\n\n\"While Miss Kirkpatrick--?\" repeated Mr. Gibson, in such a stern\nvoice, that Mr. Coxe, landed esquire as he was now, felt as much\ndiscomfited as he used to do when he was an apprentice, and Mr.\nGibson had spoken to him in a similar manner.\n\n\"I was only going to say, sir, that so far as one can judge from\nmanner, and willingness to listen, and apparent pleasure in my\nvisits--altogether, I think I may venture to hope that Miss\nKirkpatrick is not quite indifferent to me,--and I would wait,--you\nhave no objection, have you, sir, to my speaking to her, I mean?\"\nsaid Mr. Coxe, a little anxious at the expression on Mr. Gibson's\nface. \"I do assure you I haven't a chance with Miss Gibson,\" he\ncontinued, not knowing what to say, and fancying that his inconstancy\nwas rankling in Mr. Gibson's mind.\n\n\"No! I don't suppose you have. Don't go and fancy it is that which is\nannoying me. You're mistaken about Miss Kirkpatrick, however. I don't\nbelieve she could ever have meant to give you encouragement!\"\n\nMr. Coxe's face grew perceptibly paler. His feelings, if evanescent,\nwere evidently strong.\n\n\"I think, sir, if you could have seen her--I don't consider myself\nvain, and manner is so difficult to describe. At any rate, you can\nhave no objection to my taking my chance, and speaking to her.\"\n\n\"Of course, if you won't be convinced otherwise, I can have no\nobjection. But if you'll take my advice, you will spare yourself the\npain of a refusal. I may, perhaps, be trenching on confidence, but I\nthink I ought to tell you that her affections are otherwise engaged.\"\n\n\"It cannot be!\" said Mr. Coxe. \"Mr. Gibson, there must be some\nmistake. I have gone as far as I dared in expressing my feelings,\nand her manner has been most gracious. I don't think she could have\nmisunderstood my meaning. Perhaps she has changed her mind? It is\npossible that, after consideration, she has learnt to prefer another,\nis it not?\"\n\n\"By 'another,' you mean yourself, I suppose. I can believe in such\ninconstancy\" (he could not help, in his own mind, giving a slight\nsneer at the instance before him), \"but I should be very sorry to\nthink that Miss Kirkpatrick could be guilty of it.\"\n\n\"But she may--it is a chance. Will you allow me to see her?\"\n\n\"Certainly, my poor fellow\"--for, intermingled with a little\ncontempt, was a good deal of respect for the simplicity, the\nunworldliness, the strength of feeling, even though the feeling was\nevanescent--\"I will send her to you directly.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir. God bless you for a kind friend!\"\n\nMr. Gibson went upstairs to the drawing-room, where he was pretty\nsure he should find Cynthia. There she was, as bright and careless as\nusual, making up a bonnet for her mother, and chattering to Molly as\nshe worked.\n\n\"Cynthia, you will oblige me by going down into my consulting-room at\nonce. Mr. Coxe wants to speak to you!\"\n\n\"Mr. Coxe?\" said Cynthia. \"What can he want with me?\"\n\nEvidently, she answered her own question as soon as it was asked, for\nshe coloured, and avoided meeting Mr. Gibson's severe, uncompromising\nlook. As soon as she had left the room, Mr. Gibson sat down,\nand took up a new _Edinburgh_ lying on the table, as an excuse\nfor conversation. Was there anything in the article that made\nhim say, after a minute or two, to Molly, who sat silent and\nwondering--\"Molly, you must never trifle with the love of an honest\nman. You don't know what pain you may give.\"\n\nPresently Cynthia came back into the drawing-room, looking very\nmuch confused. Most likely she would not have returned if she had\nknown that Mr. Gibson was still there; but it was such an unheard-of\nthing for him to be sitting in that room in the middle of the day,\nreading or making pretence to read, that she had never thought of his\nremaining. He looked up at her the moment she came in, so there was\nnothing for it but putting a bold face on it, and going back to her\nwork.\n\n\"Is Mr. Coxe still downstairs?\" asked Mr. Gibson.\n\n\"No. He is gone. He asked me to give you both his kind regards. I\nbelieve he is leaving this afternoon.\" Cynthia tried to make her\nmanner as commonplace as possible; but she did not look up, and her\nvoice trembled a little.\n\nMr. Gibson went on looking at his book for a few minutes; but Cynthia\nfelt that more was coming, and only wished it would come quickly, for\nthe severe silence was very hard to bear. It came at last.\n\n\"I trust this will never occur again, Cynthia!\" said he, in grave\ndispleasure. \"I should not feel satisfied with the conduct of any\ngirl, however free, who could receive marked attentions from a young\nman with complacency, and so lead him on to make an offer which she\nnever meant to accept. But what must I think of a young woman in\nyour position, engaged--yet 'accepting most graciously,' for that\nwas the way Coxe expressed it--the overtures of another man? Do you\nconsider what unnecessary pain you have given him by your thoughtless\nbehaviour? I call it thoughtless, but it's the mildest epithet I can\napply to it. I beg that such a thing may not occur again, or I shall\nbe obliged to characterize it more severely.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"I TRUST THIS WILL NEVER OCCUR AGAIN, CYNTHIA!\"]\n\n\nMolly could not imagine what \"more severely\" could be, for her\nfather's manner appeared to her almost cruel in its sternness.\nCynthia coloured up extremely, then went pale, and at length raised\nher beautiful appealing eyes full of tears to Mr. Gibson. He was\ntouched by that look, but he resolved immediately not to be mollified\nby any of her physical charms of expression, but to keep to his sober\njudgment of her conduct.\n\n\"Please, Mr. Gibson, hear my side of the story before you speak so\nhardly to me. I did not mean to--to flirt. I merely meant to make\nmyself agreeable,--I can't help doing that,--and that goose of a Mr.\nCoxe seems to have fancied I meant to give him encouragement.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that you were not aware that he was falling in love with\nyou?\" Mr. Gibson was melting into a readiness to be convinced by that\nsweet voice and pleading face.\n\n\"Well, I suppose I must speak truly.\" Cynthia blushed and\nsmiled--ever so little--but it was a smile, and it hardened Mr.\nGibson's heart again. \"I did think once or twice that he was becoming\na little more complimentary than the occasion required; but I hate\nthrowing cold water on people, and I never thought he could take it\ninto his silly head to fancy himself seriously in love, and to make\nsuch a fuss at the last, after only a fortnight's acquaintance.\"\n\n\"You seem to have been pretty well aware of his silliness (I\nshould rather call it simplicity). Don't you think you should have\nremembered that it might lead him to exaggerate what you were doing\nand saying into encouragement?\"\n\n\"Perhaps. I daresay I'm all wrong, and that he is all right,\" said\nCynthia, piqued and pouting. \"We used to say in France, that '_les\nabsens ont toujours tort_,' but really it seems as if here--\" she\nstopped. She was unwilling to be impertinent to a man whom she\nrespected and liked. She took up another point of her defence, and\nrather made matters worse. \"Besides, Roger would not allow me to\nconsider myself as finally engaged to him; I would willingly have\ndone it, but he would not let me.\"\n\n\"Nonsense. Don't let us go on talking about it, Cynthia! I've said\nall that I mean to say. I believe that you were only thoughtless, as\nI told you before. But don't let it happen again.\" He left the room\nat once, to put a stop to the conversation, the continuance of which\nwould serve no useful purpose, and perhaps end by irritating him.\n\n\"Not guilty, but we recommend the prisoner not to do it again. It's\npretty much that, isn't it, Molly?\" said Cynthia, letting her tears\ndownfall, even while she smiled. \"I do believe your father might make\na good woman of me yet, if he would only take the pains, and wasn't\nquite so severe. And to think of that stupid little fellow making all\nthis mischief! He pretended to take it to heart, as if he had loved\nme for years instead of only for days. I daresay only for hours if\nthe truth were told.\"\n\n\"I was afraid he was becoming very fond of you,\" said Molly; \"at\nleast it struck me once or twice; but I knew he could not stay long,\nand I thought it would only make you uncomfortable if I said anything\nabout it. But now I wish I had!\"\n\n\"It wouldn't have made a bit of difference,\" replied Cynthia. \"I knew\nhe liked me, and I like to be liked; it's born in me to try to make\nevery one I come near fond of me; but then they shouldn't carry it\ntoo far, for it becomes very troublesome if they do. I shall hate\nred-haired people for the rest of my life. To think of such a man as\nthat being the cause of your father's displeasure with me!\"\n\nMolly had a question at her tongue's end that she longed to put; she\nknew it was indiscreet, but at last out it came almost against her\nwill:\n\n\"Shall you tell Roger about it?\"\n\nCynthia replied, \"I've not thought about it--no! I don't think I\nshall--there's no need. Perhaps, if we are ever married--\"\n\n\"Ever married!\" said Molly, under her breath. But Cynthia took no\nnotice of the exclamation until she had finished the sentence which\nit interrupted.\n\n\"--and I can see his face and know his mood, I may tell it him then;\nbut not in writing, and when he is absent; it might annoy him.\"\n\n\"I am afraid it would make him uncomfortable,\" said Molly,\nsimply. \"And yet it must be so pleasant to be able to tell him\neverything--all your difficulties and troubles.\"\n\n\"Yes; only I don't worry him with these things; it's better to\nwrite him merry letters, and cheer him up among the black folk. You\nrepeated 'Ever married,' a little while ago; do you know, Molly, I\ndon't think I ever shall be married to him? I don't know why, but I\nhave a strong presentiment, so it's just as well not to tell him all\nmy secrets, for it would be awkward for him to know them if it never\ncame off!\"\n\nMolly dropped her work, and sat silent, looking into the future; at\nlength she said, \"I think it would break his heart, Cynthia!\"\n\n\"Nonsense. Why, I'm sure that Mr. Coxe came here with the intention\nof falling in love with you--you needn't blush so violently. I'm sure\nyou saw it as plainly as I did, only you made yourself disagreeable,\nand I took pity on him, and consoled his wounded vanity.\"\n\n\"Can you--do you dare to compare Roger Hamley to Mr. Coxe?\" asked\nMolly, indignantly.\n\n\"No, no, I don't!\" said Cynthia in a moment. \"They are as different\nas men can be. Don't be so dreadfully serious over everything, Molly.\nYou look as oppressed with sad reproach, as if I had been passing on\nto you the scolding your father gave me.\"\n\n\"Because I don't think you value Roger as you ought, Cynthia!\" said\nMolly stoutly, for it required a good deal of courage to force\nherself to say this, although she could not tell why she shrank so\nfrom speaking.\n\n\"Yes, I do! It's not in my nature to go into ecstasies, and I don't\nsuppose I shall ever be what people call 'in love.' But I am glad he\nloves me, and I like to make him happy, and I think him the best and\nmost agreeable man I know, always excepting your father when he isn't\nangry with me. What can I say more, Molly? would you like me to say I\nthink him handsome?\"\n\n\"I know most people think him plain, but--\"\n\n\"Well, I'm of the opinion of most people then, and small blame to\nthem. But I like his face--oh, ten thousand times better than Mr.\nPreston's handsomeness!\" For the first time during the conversation\nCynthia seemed thoroughly in earnest. Why Mr. Preston was introduced\nneither she nor Molly knew; it came up and out by a sudden impulse;\nbut a fierce look came into the eyes, and the soft lips contracted\nthemselves as Cynthia named his name. Molly had noticed this look\nbefore, always at the mention of this one person.\n\n\"Cynthia, what makes you dislike Mr. Preston so much?\"\n\n\"Don't you? Why do you ask me? and yet, Molly,\" said she, suddenly\nrelaxing into depression, not merely in tone and look, but in the\ndroop of her limbs--\"Molly, what should you think of me if I married\nhim after all?\"\n\n\"Married him! Has he ever asked you?\"\n\nBut Cynthia, instead of replying to this question, went on, uttering\nher own thoughts,--\"More unlikely things have happened. Have you\nnever heard of strong wills mesmerizing weaker ones into submission?\nOne of the girls at Madame Lefevre's went out as a governess to a\nRussian family, who lived near Moscow. I sometimes think I'll write\nto her to find me a situation in Russia, just to get out of the daily\nchance of seeing that man!\"\n\n\"But sometimes you seem quite intimate with him, and talk to him--\"\n\n\"How can I help it?\" said Cynthia impatiently. Then recovering\nherself she added: \"We knew him so well at Ashcombe, and he's not a\nman to be easily thrown off, I can tell you. I must be civil to him;\nit's not from liking, and he knows it's not, for I've told him so.\nHowever, we won't talk about him. I don't know how we came to do it,\nI'm sure: the mere fact of his existence, and of his being within\nhalf a mile of us, is bad enough. Oh! I wish Roger was at home,\nand rich, and could marry me at once, and carry me away from that\nman! If I'd thought of it, I really believe I would have taken poor\nred-haired Mr. Coxe.\"\n\n\"I don't understand it at all,\" said Molly. \"I dislike Mr. Preston,\nbut I should never think of taking such violent steps as you speak\nof, to get away from the neighbourhood in which he lives.\"\n\n\"No, because you are a reasonable little darling,\" said Cynthia,\nresuming her usual manner, and coming up to Molly, and kissing her.\n\"At least you'll acknowledge I'm a good hater!\"\n\n\"Yes. But still I don't understand it.\"\n\n\"Oh, never mind! There are old complications with our affairs at\nAshcombe. Money matters are at the root of it all. Horrid poverty--do\nlet us talk of something else! Or, better still, let me go and finish\nmy letter to Roger, or I shall be too late for the African mail!\"\n\n\"Isn't it gone? Oh, I ought to have reminded you! It will be too\nlate. Did you not see the notice at the post-office that letters\nought to be in London on the morning of the 10th instead of the\nevening. Oh, I am so sorry!\"\n\n\"So am I, but it can't be helped. It is to be hoped it will be the\ngreater treat when he does get it. I've a far greater weight on my\nheart, because your father seems so displeased with me. I was fond\nof him, and now he is making me quite a coward. You see, Molly,\"\ncontinued she, a little piteously, \"I've never lived with people with\nsuch a high standard of conduct before; and I don't quite know how to\nbehave.\"\n\n\"You must learn,\" said Molly tenderly. \"You'll find Roger quite as\nstrict in his notions of right and wrong.\"\n\n\"Ah, but he's in love with me!\" said Cynthia, with a pretty\nconsciousness of her power. Molly turned away her head, and was\nsilent; it was of no use combating the truth, and she tried rather\nnot to feel it--not to feel, poor girl, that she too had a great\nweight on her heart, into the cause of which she shrank from\nexamining. That whole winter long she had felt as if her sun was all\nshrouded over with grey mist, and could no longer shine brightly for\nher. She wakened up in the morning with a dull sense of something\nbeing wrong; the world was out of joint, and, if she were born to set\nit right, she did not know how to do it. Blind herself as she would,\nshe could not help perceiving that her father was not satisfied with\nthe wife he had chosen. For a long time Molly had been surprised at\nhis apparent contentment; sometimes she had been unselfish enough to\nbe glad that he was satisfied; but still more frequently nature would\nhave its way, and she was almost irritated at what she considered\nhis blindness. Something, however, had changed him now: something\nthat had arisen at the time of Cynthia's engagement. He had become\nnervously sensitive to his wife's failings, and his whole manner\nhad grown dry and sarcastic, not merely to her, but sometimes to\nCynthia,--and even--but this very rarely, to Molly herself. He was\nnot a man to go into passions, or ebullitions of feeling: they would\nhave relieved him, even while degrading him in his own eyes; but\nhe became hard, and occasionally bitter in his speeches and ways.\nMolly now learnt to long after the vanished blindness in which her\nfather had passed the first year of his marriage; yet there were no\noutrageous infractions of domestic peace. Some people might say that\nMr. Gibson \"accepted the inevitable;\" he told himself in more homely\nphrase \"that it was no use crying over spilt milk:\" and he, from\nprinciple, avoided all actual dissensions with his wife, preferring\nto cut short a discussion by a sarcasm, or by leaving the room.\nMoreover, Mrs. Gibson had a very tolerable temper of her own, and her\ncat-like nature purred and delighted in smooth ways, and pleasant\nquietness. She had no great facility for understanding sarcasm; it\nis true it disturbed her, but as she was not quick at deciphering\nany depth of meaning, and felt it unpleasant to think about it, she\nforgot it as soon as possible. Yet she saw she was often in some kind\nof disfavour with her husband, and it made her uneasy. She resembled\nCynthia in this: she liked to be liked; and she wanted to regain\nthe esteem which she did not perceive she had lost for ever. Molly\nsometimes took her stepmother's part in secret; she felt as if\nshe herself could never have borne her father's hard speeches so\npatiently; they would have cut her to the heart, and she must either\nhave demanded an explanation, and probed the sore to the bottom, or\nsat down despairing and miserable. Instead of which Mrs. Gibson,\nafter her husband had left the room, on these occasions would say in\na manner more bewildered than hurt--\n\n\"I think dear papa seems a little put out to-day; we must see that he\nhas a dinner that he likes when he comes home. I have often perceived\nthat everything depends on making a man comfortable in his own\nhouse.\"\n\nAnd thus she went on, groping about to find the means of reinstating\nherself in his good graces--really trying, according to her lights,\ntill Molly was often compelled to pity her in spite of herself, and\nalthough she saw that her stepmother was the cause of her father's\nincreased astringency of disposition. For, indeed, he had got into\nthat kind of exaggerated susceptibility with regard to his wife's\nfaults, which may be best typified by the state of bodily irritation\nthat is produced by the constant recurrence of any particular noise:\nthose who are brought within hearing of it, are apt to be always on\nthe watch for the repetition, if they are once made to notice it, and\nare in an irritable state of nerves.\n\nSo that poor Molly had not passed a cheerful winter, independently of\nany private sorrows that she might have in her own heart. She did not\nlook well, either: she was gradually falling into low health, rather\nthan bad health. Her heart beat more feebly and slower; the vivifying\nstimulant of hope--even unacknowledged hope--was gone out of her\nlife. It seemed as if there was not, and never could be in this\nworld, any help for the dumb discordancy between her father and his\nwife. Day after day, month after month, year after year, would Molly\nhave to sympathize with her father, and pity her stepmother, feeling\nacutely for both, and certainly more than Mrs. Gibson felt for\nherself. Molly could not imagine how she had at one time wished for\nher father's eyes to be opened, and how she could ever have fancied\nthat if they were, he would be able to change things in Mrs. Gibson's\ncharacter. It was all hopeless, and the only attempt at a remedy was\nto think about it as little as possible. Then Cynthia's ways and\nmanners about Roger gave Molly a great deal of uneasiness. She did\nnot believe that Cynthia cared enough for him; at any rate, not with\nthe sort of love that she herself would have bestowed, if she had\nbeen so happy--no, that was not it--if she had been in Cynthia's\nplace. She felt as if she should have gone to him both hands held\nout, full and brimming over with tenderness, and been grateful for\nevery word of precious confidence bestowed on her. Yet Cynthia\nreceived his letters with a kind of carelessness, and read them with\na strange indifference, while Molly sat at her feet, so to speak,\nlooking up with eyes as wistful as a dog's waiting for crumbs, and\nsuch chance beneficences.\n\nShe tried to be patient on these occasions, but at last she must\nask--\"Where is he, Cynthia? What does he say?\" By this time Cynthia\nhad put down the letter on the table by her, smiling a little from\ntime to time, as she remembered the loving compliments it contained.\n\n\"Where? Oh, I didn't look exactly--somewhere in Abyssinia--Huon. I\ncan't read the word, and it doesn't much signify, for it would give\nme no idea.\"\n\n\"Is he well?\" asked greedy Molly.\n\n\"Yes, now. He has had a slight touch of fever, he says; but it's all\nover now, and he hopes he is getting acclimatized.\"\n\n\"Of fever!--and who took care of him? he would want nursing,--and so\nfar from home. Oh, Cynthia!\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't fancy he had any nursing, poor fellow! One doesn't\nexpect nursing, and hospitals, and doctors in Abyssinia; but he had\nplenty of quinine with him, and I suppose that is the best specific.\nAt any rate he says he is quite well now!\"\n\nMolly sat silent for a minute or two.\n\n\"What is the date of the letter, Cynthia?\"\n\n\"I didn't look. December the--December the 10th.\"\n\n\"That's nearly two months ago,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Yes; but I determined I wouldn't worry myself with useless anxiety,\nwhen he went away. If anything did--go wrong, you know,\" said\nCynthia, using a euphuism for death, as most people do (it is an\nugly word to speak plain out in the midst of life), \"it would be all\nover before I even heard of his illness, and I could be of no use to\nhim--could I, Molly?\"\n\n\"No. I daresay it is all very true; only I should think the Squire\ncould not take it so easily.\"\n\n\"I always write him a little note when I hear from Roger, but I don't\nthink I'll name this touch of fever--shall I, Molly?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Molly. \"People say one ought, but I almost wish\nI hadn't heard it. Please, does he say anything else that I may\nhear?\"\n\n\"Oh, lovers' letters are so silly, and I think this is sillier than\nusual,\" said Cynthia, looking over her letter again. \"Here's a piece\nyou may read, from that line to that,\" indicating two places. \"I\nhaven't read it myself for it looked dullish--all about Aristotle and\nPliny--and I want to get this bonnet-cap made up before we go out to\npay our calls.\"\n\nMolly took the letter, the thought crossing her mind that he had\ntouched it, had had his hands upon it, in those far distant desert\nlands, where he might be lost to sight and to any human knowledge\nof his fate; even now her pretty brown fingers almost caressed the\nflimsy paper with their delicacy of touch as she read. She saw\nreferences made to books, which, with a little trouble, would be\naccessible to her here in Hollingford. Perhaps the details and the\nreferences would make the letter dull and dry to some people, but not\nto her, thanks to his former teaching and the interest he had excited\nin her for his pursuits. But, as he said in apology, what had he to\nwrite about in that savage land, but his love, and his researches,\nand travels? There was no society, no gaiety, no new books to write\nabout, no gossip in Abyssinian wilds.\n\nMolly was not in strong health, and perhaps this made her a little\nfanciful; but certain it is that her thoughts by day and her dreams\nby night were haunted by the idea of Roger lying ill and untended in\nthose savage lands. Her constant prayer, \"O my Lord! give her the\nliving child, and in no wise slay it,\" came from a heart as true as\nthat of the real mother in King Solomon's judgment. \"Let him live,\nlet him live, even though I may never set eyes upon him again. Have\npity upon his father! Grant that he may come home safe, and live\nhappily with her whom he loves so tenderly--so tenderly, O God.\" And\nthen she would burst into tears, and drop asleep at last, sobbing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\nMR. KIRKPATRICK, Q.C.\n\n\nCynthia was always the same with Molly: kind, sweet-tempered, ready\nto help, professing a great deal of love for her, and probably\nfeeling as much as she did for any one in the world. But Molly had\nreached to this superficial depth of affection and intimacy in the\nfirst few weeks of Cynthia's residence in her father's house; and if\nshe had been of a nature prone to analyse the character of one whom\nshe loved dearly, she might have perceived that, with all Cynthia's\napparent frankness, there were certain limits beyond which her\nconfidence did not go; where her reserve began, and her real self was\nshrouded in mystery. For instance, her relations with Mr. Preston\nwere often very puzzling to Molly. She was sure that there had been a\nmuch greater intimacy between them formerly at Ashcombe, and that the\nremembrance of this was often very galling and irritating to Cynthia,\nwho was as evidently desirous of forgetting it as he was anxious\nto make her remember it. But why this intimacy had ceased, why\nCynthia disliked him so extremely now, and many other unexplained\ncircumstances connected with these two facts, were Cynthia's secrets;\nand she effectually baffled all Molly's innocent attempts during\nthe first glow of her friendship for Cynthia, to learn the girlish\nantecedents of her companion's life. Every now and then Molly came\nto a dead wall, beyond which she could not pass--at least with the\ndelicate instruments which were all she chose to use. Perhaps Cynthia\nmight have told all there was to tell to a more forcible curiosity,\nwhich knew how to improve every slip of the tongue and every fit of\ntemper to its own gratification. But Molly's was the interest of\naffection, not the coarser desire of knowing everything for a little\nexcitement; and as soon as she saw that Cynthia did not wish to tell\nher anything about that period of her life, Molly left off referring\nto it. But if Cynthia had preserved a sweet tranquillity of manner\nand an unvarying kindness for Molly during the winter of which there\nis question, at present she was the only person to whom the beauty's\nways were unchanged. Mr. Gibson's influence had been good for her as\nlong as she saw that he liked her; she had tried to keep as high a\nplace in his good opinion as she could, and had curbed many a little\nsarcasm against her mother, and many a twisting of the absolute\ntruth when he was by. Now there was a constant uneasiness about her\nwhich made her more cowardly than before; and even her partisan,\nMolly, could not help being aware of the distinct equivocations she\noccasionally used when anything in Mr. Gibson's words or behaviour\npressed her too hard. Her repartees to her mother were less frequent\nthan they had been, but there was often the unusual phenomenon\nof pettishness in her behaviour to her. These changes in humour\nand disposition, here described all at once, were in themselves a\nseries of delicate alterations of relative conduct spread over many\nmonths--many winter months of long evenings and bad weather, which\nbring out discords of character, as a dash of cold water brings out\nthe fading colours of an old fresco.\n\nDuring much of this time Mr. Preston had been at Ashcombe; for Lord\nCumnor had not been able to find an agent whom he liked to replace\nMr. Preston; and while the inferior situation remained vacant Mr.\nPreston had undertaken to do the duties of both. Mrs. Goodenough had\nhad a serious illness; and the little society at Hollingford did not\ncare to meet while one of their habitual set was scarcely out of\ndanger. So there had been very little visiting; and though Miss\nBrowning said that the absence of the temptations of society was very\nagreeable to cultivated minds, after the dissipations of the previous\nautumn, when there were parties every week to welcome Mr. Preston,\nyet Miss Phoebe let out in confidence that she and her sister had\nfallen into the habit of going to bed at nine o'clock, for they found\ncribbage night after night, from five o'clock till ten, rather too\nmuch of a good thing. To tell the truth, that winter, if peaceful,\nwas monotonous in Hollingford; and the whole circle of gentility\nthere was delighted to be stirred up in March by the intelligence\nthat Mr. Kirkpatrick, the newly-made Q.C., was coming on a visit for\na couple of days to his sister-in-law, Mrs. Gibson. Mrs. Goodenough's\nroom was the very centre of gossip; gossip had been her daily bread\nthrough her life, gossip was meat and wine to her now.\n\n\"Dear-ah-me!\" said the old lady, rousing herself so as to sit upright\nin her easy-chair, and propping herself with her hands on the arms;\n\"who would ha' thought she'd such grand relations! Why, Mr. Ashton\ntold me once that a Queen's counsel was as like to be a judge as a\nkitten is like to be a cat. And to think of her being as good as\na sister to a judge! I saw one oncst; and I know I thought as I\nshouldn't wish for a better winter-cloak than his old robes would\nmake me, if I could only find out where I could get 'em second-hand.\nAnd I know she'd her silk gowns turned and dyed and cleaned, and, for\naught I know, turned again, while she lived at Ashcombe. Keeping a\nschool, too, and so near akin to this Queen's counsel all the time!\nWell, to be sure, it wasn't much of a school--only ten young ladies\nat the best o' times; so perhaps he never heard of it.\"\n\n\"I've been wondering what they'll give him to dinner,\" said Miss\nBrowning. \"It is an unlucky time for visitors; no game to be had,\nand lamb so late this year, and chicken hardly to be had for love or\nmoney.\"\n\n\"He'll have to put up with calf's head, that he will,\" said Mrs.\nGoodenough, solemnly. \"If I'd ha' got my usual health I'd copy out\na receipt of my grandmother's for a rolled calf's head, and send it\nto Mrs. Gibson--the doctor has been very kind to me all through this\nillness--I wish my daughter in Combermere would send me some autumn\nchickens--I'd pass 'em on to the doctor, that I would; but she's been\na-killing of 'em all, and a-sending of them to me, and the last she\nsent she wrote me word was the last.\"\n\n\"I wonder if they'll give a party for him!\" suggested Miss Phoebe.\n\"I should like to see a Queen's counsel for once in my life. I have\nseen javelin-men, but that's the greatest thing in the legal line I\never came across.\"\n\n\"They'll ask Mr. Ashton, of course,\" said Miss Browning. \"The three\nblack graces, Law, Physic, and Divinity, as the song calls them.\nWhenever there's a second course, there's always the clergyman of the\nparish invited in any family of gentility.\"\n\n\"I wonder if he's married!\" said Mrs. Goodenough. Miss Phoebe had\nbeen feeling the same wonder, but had not thought it maidenly to\nexpress it, even to her sister, who was the source of knowledge,\nhaving met Mrs. Gibson in the street on her way to Mrs. Goodenough's.\n\n\"Yes, he's married, and must have several children, for Mrs. Gibson\nsaid that Cynthia Kirkpatrick had paid them a visit in London, to\nhave lessons with her cousins. And she said that his wife was a most\naccomplished woman, and of good family, though she brought him no\nfortune.\"\n\n\"It's a very creditable connection, I'm sure; it's only a wonder\nto me as how we've heard so little talk of it before,\" said Mrs.\nGoodenough. \"At the first look of the thing, I shouldn't ha' thought\nMrs. Gibson was one to hide away her fine relations under a bushel;\nindeed, for that matter, we're all of us fond o' turning the best\nbreadth o' the gown to the front. I remember, speaking o' breadths,\nhow I've undone my skirts many a time and oft to put a stain or a\ngrease-spot next to poor Mr. Goodenough. He'd a soft kind of heart\nwhen first we was married, and he said, says he, 'Patty, link thy\nright arm into my left one, then thou'lt be nearer to my heart;' and\nso we kept up the habit, when, poor man, he'd a deal more to think on\nthan romancing on which side his heart lay; so, as I said, I always\nput my damaged breadths on the right hand, and when we walked arm in\narm, as we always did, no one was never the wiser.\"\n\n\"I should not be surprised if he invited Cynthia to pay him another\nvisit in London,\" said Miss Browning. \"If he did it when he was poor,\nhe's twenty times more likely to do it now he's a Queen's counsel.\"\n\n\"Ay, work it by the rule o' three, and she stands a good chance. I\nonly hope it won't turn her head; going up visiting in London at her\nage. Why, I was fifty before ever I went!\"\n\n\"But she has been in France; she's quite a travelled young lady,\"\nsaid Miss Phoebe.\n\nMrs. Goodenough shook her head for a whole minute before she gave\nvent to her opinion.\n\n\"It's a risk,\" said she, \"a great risk. I don't like saying so to\nthe doctor, but I shouldn't like having my daughter, if I was him,\nso cheek-by-jowl with a girl as was brought up in the country where\nRobespierre and Bonyparte was born.\"\n\n\"But Buonaparte was a Corsican,\" said Miss Browning, who was much\nfarther advanced both in knowledge and in liberality of opinions than\nMrs. Goodenough. \"And there's a great opportunity for cultivation of\nthe mind afforded by intercourse with foreign countries. I always\nadmire Cynthia's grace of manner, never too shy to speak, yet never\nputting herself forwards; she's quite a help to a party; and if she\nhas a few airs and graces, why they're natural at her age! Now as for\ndear Molly, there's a kind of awkwardness about her--she broke one of\nour best china cups last time she was at a party at our house, and\nspilt the coffee on the new carpet; and then she got so confused that\nshe hardly did anything but sit in a corner and hold her tongue all\nthe rest of the evening.\"\n\n\"She was so sorry for what she'd done, sister,\" said Miss Phoebe,\nin a gentle tone of reproach; she was always faithful to Molly.\n\n\"Well, and did I say she wasn't? but was there any need for her to be\nstupid all the evening after?\"\n\n\"But you were rather sharp,--rather displeased--\"\n\n\"And I think it my duty to be sharp, ay, and cross too, when I see\nyoung folks careless. And when I see my duty clear, I do it; I'm not\none to shrink from it, and they ought to be grateful to me. It's\nnot every one that will take the trouble of reproving them, as Mrs.\nGoodenough knows. I'm very fond of Molly Gibson, very, for her own\nsake and for her mother's too; I'm not sure if I don't think she's\nworth half-a-dozen Cynthias, but for all that she shouldn't break my\nbest china teacup, and then sit doing nothing for her livelihood all\nthe rest of the evening.\"\n\nBy this time Mrs. Goodenough gave evident signs of being tired;\nMolly's misdemeanors and Miss Browning's broken teacup were not as\nexciting subjects of conversation as Mrs. Gibson's newly-discovered\ngood luck in having a successful London lawyer for a relation.\n\nMr. Kirkpatrick had been, like many other men, struggling on in his\nprofession, and encumbered with a large family of his own; he was\nready to do a good turn for his connections, if it occasioned him no\nloss of time, and if (which was, perhaps, a primary condition) he\nremembered their existence. Cynthia's visit to Doughty Street nine\nor ten years ago had not made much impression upon him after he had\nonce suggested its feasibility to his good-natured wife. He was even\nrather startled every now and then by the appearance of a pretty\nlittle girl amongst his own children, as they trooped in to dessert,\nand had to remind himself who she was. But as it was his custom\nto leave the table almost immediately and to retreat into a small\nback-room called his study, to immerse himself in papers for the rest\nof the evening, the child had not made much impression upon him; and\nprobably the next time he remembered her existence was when Mrs.\nKirkpatrick wrote to him to beg him to receive Cynthia for a night on\nher way to school at Boulogne. The same request was repeated on her\nreturn; but it so happened that he had not seen her either time; and\nonly dimly remembered some remarks which his wife had made on one of\nthese occasions, that it seemed to her rather hazardous to send so\nyoung a girl so long a journey without making more provision for her\nsafety than Mrs. Kirkpatrick had done. He knew that his wife would\nfill up all deficiencies in this respect as if Cynthia had been her\nown daughter; and thought no more about her until he received an\ninvitation to attend Mrs. Kirkpatrick's wedding with Mr. Gibson, the\nhighly-esteemed surgeon of Hollingford, &c. &c.--an attention which\nirritated instead of pleasing him. \"Does the woman think I have\nnothing to do but run about the country in search of brides and\nbridegrooms, when this great case of Houghton _v._ Houghton is coming\non, and I haven't a moment to spare?\" he asked of his wife.\n\n\"Perhaps she never heard of it,\" suggested Mrs. Kirkpatrick.\n\n\"Nonsense! the case has been in the papers for days.\"\n\n\"But she mayn't know you are engaged in it.\"\n\n\"She mayn't,\" said he, meditatively--such ignorance was possible.\n\nBut now the great case of Houghton _v._ Houghton was a thing of the\npast; the hard struggle was over, the comparative table-land of Q.\nC.-dom gained, and Mr. Kirkpatrick had leisure for family feeling and\nrecollection. One day in the Easter vacation he found himself near\nHollingford; he had a Sunday to spare, and he wrote to offer himself\nas a visitor to the Gibsons from Friday till Monday, expressing\nstrongly (what he really felt, in a less degree,) his wish to make\nMr. Gibson's acquaintance. Mr. Gibson, though often overwhelmed with\nprofessional business, was always hospitable; and moreover, it was\nalways a pleasure to him to get out of the somewhat confined mental\natmosphere which he had breathed over and over again, and have a\nwhiff of fresh air: a glimpse of what was passing in the great world\nbeyond his daily limits of thought and action. So he was ready to\ngive a cordial welcome to his unknown relation. Mrs. Gibson was\nin a flutter of sentimental delight, which she fancied was family\naffection, but which might not have been quite so effervescent if Mr.\nKirkpatrick had remained in his former position of struggling lawyer,\nwith seven children, living in Doughty Street.\n\nWhen the two gentlemen met they were attracted towards each other\nby a similarity of character, with just enough difference in their\nopinions to make the experience of each, on which such opinions\nwere based, valuable to the other. To Mrs. Gibson, although the\nbond between them counted for very little in their intercourse, Mr.\nKirkpatrick paid very polite attention; and was, in fact, very glad\nthat she had done so well for herself as to marry a sensible and\nagreeable man, who was able to keep her in comfort, and to behave\nto her daughter in so liberal a manner. Molly struck him as a\ndelicate-looking girl, who might be very pretty if she had a greater\nlook of health and animation: indeed, looking at her critically,\nthere were beautiful points about her face--long soft grey eyes,\nblack curling eyelashes, rarely-showing dimples, perfect teeth;\nbut there was a languor over all, a slow depression of manner,\nwhich contrasted unfavourably with the brightly-coloured Cynthia,\nsparkling, quick, graceful, and witty. As Mr. Kirkpatrick expressed\nit afterwards to his wife, he was quite in love with that girl;\nand Cynthia, as ready to captivate strangers as any little girl\nof three or four, rose to the occasion, forgot all her cares and\ndespondencies, remembered no longer her regret at having lost\nsomething of Mr. Gibson's good opinion, and listened eagerly and made\nsoft replies, intermixed with naïve sallies of droll humour, till\nMr. Kirkpatrick was quite captivated. He left Hollingford, almost\nsurprised to have performed a duty, and found it a pleasure. For Mrs.\nGibson and Molly he had a general friendly feeling; but he did not\ncare if he never saw them again. But for Mr. Gibson he had a warm\nrespect, a strong personal liking, which he should be glad to have\nripen into a friendship, if there was time for it in this bustling\nworld. And he fully resolved to see more of Cynthia; his wife must\nknow her; they must have her up to stay with them in London, and show\nher something of the world. But, on returning home, Mr. Kirkpatrick\nfound so much work awaiting him that he had to lock up embryo\nfriendships and kindly plans in some safe closet of his mind,\nand give himself up, body and soul, to the immediate work of his\nprofession. But, in May, he found time to take his wife to the\nAcademy Exhibition, and some portrait there striking him as being\nlike Cynthia, he told his wife more about her and his visit to\nHollingford than he had ever had leisure to do before; and the\nresult was that on the next day a letter was sent off to Mrs. Gibson,\ninviting Cynthia to pay a visit to her cousins in London, and\nreminding her of many little circumstances that had occurred when she\nwas with them as a child, so as to carry on the clue of friendship\nfrom that time to the present.\n\nOn its receipt, this letter was greeted in various ways by the four\npeople who sate round the breakfast-table. Mrs. Gibson read it to\nherself first. Then, without telling what its contents were, so that\nher auditors were quite in the dark as to what her remarks applied,\nshe said,--\n\n\"I think they might have remembered that I am a generation nearer to\nthem than she is, but nobody thinks of family affection now-a days;\nand I liked him so much, and bought a new cookery-book, all to make\nit pleasant and agreeable and what he was used to.\" She said all this\nin a plaintive, aggrieved tone of voice; but as no one knew to what\nshe was referring, it was difficult to offer her consolation. Her\nhusband was the first to speak.\n\n\"If you want us to sympathize with you, tell us what is the nature of\nyour woe.\"\n\n\"Why, I daresay it's what he means as a very kind attention, only I\nthink I ought to have been asked before Cynthia,\" said she, reading\nthe letter over again.\n\n\"Who's _he_? and what's meant for a 'kind attention'?\"\n\n\"Mr. Kirkpatrick, to be sure. This letter is from him; and he wants\nCynthia to go and pay them a visit, and never says anything about you\nor me, my dear. And I'm sure we did our best to make it pleasant; and\nhe should have asked us first, I think.\"\n\n\"As I couldn't possibly have gone, it makes very little difference to\nme.\"\n\n\"But I could have gone; and, at any rate, he should have paid us\nthe compliment: it's only a proper mark of respect, you know. So\nungrateful, too, when I gave up my dressing-room on purpose for him!\"\n\n\"And I dressed for dinner every day he was here, if we are each to\nrecapitulate all our sacrifices on his behalf. But, for all that, I\ndidn't expect to be invited to his house. I shall be only too glad if\nhe will come again to mine.\"\n\n\"I've a great mind not to let Cynthia go,\" said Mrs. Gibson\nreflectively.\n\n\"I can't go, mamma,\" said Cynthia, colouring. \"My gowns are all so\nshabby, and my old bonnet must do for the summer.\"\n\n\"Well, but you can buy a new one; and I'm sure it is high time you\nshould get yourself another silk gown. You must have been saving up a\ngreat deal, for I don't know when you've had any new clothes.\"\n\nCynthia began to say something, but stopped short. She went on\nbuttering her toast, but she held it in her hand without eating it;\nwithout looking up either, as, after a minute or two of silence, she\nspoke again:--\n\n\"I cannot go. I should like it very much; but I really cannot go.\nPlease, mamma, write at once, and refuse it.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, child! When a man in Mr. Kirkpatrick's position comes\nforward to offer a favour, it does not do to decline it without\ngiving a sufficient reason. So kind of him as it is, too!\"\n\n\"Suppose you offer to go instead of me?\" proposed Cynthia.\n\n\"No, no! that won't do,\" said Mr. Gibson, decidedly. \"You can't\ntransfer invitations in that way. But, really, this excuse about your\nclothes does appear to be very trivial, Cynthia, if you have no other\nreason to give.\"\n\n\"It is a real, true reason to me,\" said Cynthia, looking up at him\nas she spoke. \"You must let me judge for myself. It would not do\nto go there in a state of shabbiness, for even in Doughty Street,\nI remember, my aunt was very particular about dress; and now that\nMargaret and Helen are grown up, and they visit so much,--pray don't\nsay anything more about it, for I know it would not do.\"\n\n\"What have you done with all your money, I wonder?\" said Mrs. Gibson.\n\"You've twenty pounds a year, thanks to Mr. Gibson and me; and I'm\nsure you haven't spent more than ten.\"\n\n\"I hadn't many things when I came back from France,\" said Cynthia, in\na low voice, and evidently troubled by all this questioning. \"Pray\nlet it be decided at once; I can't go, and there's an end of it.\" She\ngot up, and left the room rather suddenly.\n\n\"I don't understand it at all,\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"Do you, Molly?\"\n\n\"No. I know she doesn't like spending money on her dress, and is very\ncareful.\" Molly said this much, and then was afraid she had made\nmischief.\n\n\"But then she must have got the money somewhere. It always has struck\nme that if you have not extravagant habits, and do not live up to\nyour income, you must have a certain sum to lay by at the end of the\nyear. Have I not often said so, Mr. Gibson?\"\n\n\"Probably.\"\n\n\"Well, then, apply the same reasoning to Cynthia's case; and then, I\nask, what has become of the money?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell,\" said Molly, seeing that she was appealed to. \"She\nmay have given it away to some one who wants it.\"\n\nMr. Gibson put down his newspaper.\n\n\"It's very clear that she has neither got the dress nor the money\nnecessary for this London visit, and that she doesn't want any more\ninquiries to be made on the subject. She likes mysteries, in fact,\nand I detest them. Still, I think it's a desirable thing for her to\nkeep up the acquaintance, or friendship, or whatever it is to be\ncalled, with her father's family; and I shall gladly give her ten\npounds; and if that's not enough, why, either you must help her out,\nor she must do without some superfluous article of dress or another.\"\n\n\"I'm sure there never was such a kind, dear, generous man as you are,\nMr. Gibson,\" said his wife. \"To think of your being a stepfather!\nand so good to my poor fatherless girl! But, Molly my dear, I\nthink you'll acknowledge that you too are very fortunate in your\nstepmother. Are not you, love? And what happy _tête-à-têtes_ we shall\nhave together when Cynthia goes to London! I'm not sure if I don't\nget on better with you even than with her, though she is my own\nchild; for, as dear papa says so truly, there is a love of mystery\nabout her; and if I hate anything, it is the slightest concealment\nor reserve. Ten pounds! Why, it will quite set her up, buy her a\ncouple of gowns and a new bonnet, and I don't know what all! Dear Mr.\nGibson, how generous you are!\"\n\nSomething very like \"Pshaw!\" was growled out from behind the\nnewspaper.\n\n\"May I go and tell her?\" said Molly, rising up.\n\n\"Yes, do, love. Tell her it would be so ungrateful to refuse; and\ntell her that your father wishes her to go; and tell her, too, that\nit would be quite wrong not to avail herself of an opening which may\nby-and-by be extended to the rest of the family. I am sure if they\nask me--which certainly they ought to do--I won't say before they\nasked Cynthia, because I never think of myself, and am really the\nmost forgiving person in the world, in forgiving slights;--but when\nthey do ask me, which they are sure to do, I shall never be content\ntill, by putting in a little hint here and a little hint there, I've\ninduced them to send you an invitation. A month or two in London\nwould do you so much good, Molly.\"\n\nMolly had left the room before this speech was ended, and Mr. Gibson\nwas occupied with his newspaper; but Mrs. Gibson finished it to\nherself very much to her own satisfaction; for, after all, it was\nbetter to have some one of the family going on the visit, though she\nmight not be the right person, than to refuse it altogether, and\nnever to have the opportunity of saying anything about it. As Mr.\nGibson was so kind to Cynthia, she too would be kind to Molly, and\ndress her becomingly, and invite young men to the house; do all\nthe things, in fact, which Molly and her father did not want to\nhave done, and throw the old stumbling-blocks in the way of their\nunrestrained intercourse, which was the one thing they desired to\nhave, free and open, and without the constant dread of her jealousy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\nSECRET THOUGHTS OOZE OUT.\n\n\nMolly found Cynthia in the drawing-room, standing in the bow-window,\nlooking out on the garden. She started as Molly came up to her.\n\n\"Oh, Molly,\" said she, putting her arms out towards her, \"I am always\nso glad to have you with me!\"\n\nIt was outbursts of affection such as these that always called\nMolly back, if she had been ever so unconsciously wavering in her\nallegiance to Cynthia. She had been wishing downstairs that Cynthia\nwould be less reserved, and not have so many secrets; but now it\nseemed almost like treason to have wanted her to be anything but what\nshe was. Never had any one more than Cynthia the power spoken of by\nGoldsmith when he wrote--\n\n\tHe threw off his friends like a huntsman his pack,\n\tFor he knew when he liked he could whistle them back.\n\n\"Do you know, I think you'll be glad to hear what I've got to tell\nyou,\" said Molly. \"I think you would really like to go to London;\nshouldn't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, but it's of no use liking,\" said Cynthia. \"Don't you begin\nabout it, Molly, for the thing is settled; and I can't tell you why,\nbut I can't go.\"\n\n\"It is only the money, dear. And papa has been so kind about it. He\nwants you to go; he thinks you ought to keep up relationships; and he\nis going to give you ten pounds.\"\n\n\"How kind he is!\" said Cynthia. \"But I ought not to take it. I wish I\nhad known you years ago; I should have been different to what I am.\"\n\n\"Never mind that! We like you as you are; we don't want you\ndifferent. You'll really hurt papa if you don't take it. Why do you\nhesitate? Do you think Roger won't like it?\"\n\n\"Roger! no, I wasn't thinking about him! Why should he care? I shall\nbe there and back again before he even hears about it.\"\n\n\"Then you will go?\" said Molly.\n\nCynthia thought for a minute or two. \"Yes, I will,\" said she, at\nlength. \"I daresay it's not wise; but it will be pleasant, and I'll\ngo. Where is Mr. Gibson? I want to thank him. Oh, how kind he is!\nMolly, you're a lucky girl!\"\n\n\"I?\" said Molly, quite startled at being told this; for she had been\nfeeling as if so many things were going wrong, almost as if they\nwould never go right again.\n\n\"There he is!\" said Cynthia. \"I hear him in the hall!\" And down\nshe flew, and laying her hands on Mr. Gibson's arm, she thanked\nhim with such warm impulsiveness, and in so pretty and caressing a\nmanner, that something of his old feeling of personal liking for her\nreturned, and he forgot for a time the causes of disapproval he had\nagainst her.\n\n\"There, there!\" said he, \"that's enough, my dear! It's quite right\nyou should keep up with your relations; there's nothing more to be\nsaid about it.\"\n\n\"I do think your father is the most charming man I know,\" said\nCynthia, on her return to Molly; \"and it's that which always makes\nme so afraid of losing his good opinion, and fret so when I think he\nis displeased with me. And now let us think all about this London\nvisit. It will be delightful, won't it? I can make ten pounds go ever\nso far; and in some ways it will be such a comfort to get out of\nHollingford.\"\n\n\"Will it?\" said Molly, rather wistfully.\n\n\"Oh, yes! You know I don't mean that it will be a comfort to leave\nyou; that will be anything but a comfort. But, after all, a country\ntown is a country town, and London is London. You need not smile at\nmy truisms; I've always had a sympathy with M. de la Palisse,--\n\n   M. de la Palisse est mort\n      En perdant sa vie;\n   Un quart d'heure avant sa mort\n      Il était en vie,\"\n\nsang she, in so gay a manner that she puzzled Molly, as she often\ndid, by her change of mood from the gloomy decision with which she\nhad refused to accept the invitation only half an hour ago. She\nsuddenly took Molly round the waist, and began waltzing round the\nroom with her, to the imminent danger of the various little tables,\nloaded with \"_objets d'art_\" (as Mrs. Gibson delighted to call them)\nwith which the drawing-room was crowded. She avoided them, however,\nwith her usual skill; but they both stood still at last, surprised\nat Mrs. Gibson's surprise, as she stood at the door, looking at the\nwhirl going on before her.\n\n\"Upon my word, I only hope you are not going crazy, both of you!\nWhat's all this about, pray?\"\n\n\"Only because I'm so glad I'm going to London, mamma,\" said Cynthia,\ndemurely.\n\n\"I'm not sure if it's quite the thing for an engaged young lady to\nbe so much beside herself at the prospect of gaiety. In my time, our\ngreat pleasure in our lovers' absence was in thinking about them.\"\n\n\"I should have thought that would have given you pain, because you\nwould have had to remember that they were away, which ought to have\nmade you unhappy. Now, to tell you the truth, just at the moment I\nhad forgotten all about Roger. I hope it wasn't very wrong. Osborne\nlooks as if he did all my share as well as his own of the fretting\nafter Roger. How ill he looked yesterday!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Molly; \"I didn't know if any one besides me had noticed\nit. I was quite shocked.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Mrs. Gibson, \"I'm afraid that young man won't live\nlong--very much afraid,\" and she shook her head ominously.\n\n\"Oh, what will happen if he dies!\" exclaimed Molly, suddenly sitting\ndown, and thinking of that strange, mysterious wife who never made\nher appearance, whose very existence was never spoken about--and\nRoger away too!\n\n\"Well, it would be very sad, of course, and we should all feel it\nvery much, I've no doubt; for I've always been very fond of Osborne;\nin fact, before Roger became, as it were, my own flesh and blood, I\nliked Osborne better: but we must not forget the living, dear Molly,\"\n(for Molly's eyes were filling with tears at the dismal thoughts\npresented to her). \"Our dear good Roger would, I am sure, do all in\nhis power to fill Osborne's place in every way; and his marriage need\nnot be so long delayed.\"\n\n\"Don't speak of that in the same breath as Osborne's life, mamma,\"\nsaid Cynthia, hastily.\n\n\"Why, my dear, it is a very natural thought. For poor Roger's sake,\nyou know, one wishes it not to be so very, very long an engagement;\nand I was only answering Molly's question, after all. One can't help\nfollowing out one's thoughts. People must die, you know--young, as\nwell as old.\"\n\n\"If I ever suspected Roger of following out his thoughts in a similar\nway,\" said Cynthia, \"I'd never speak to him again.\"\n\n\"As if he would!\" said Molly, warm in her turn. \"You know he never\nwould; and you shouldn't suppose it of him, Cynthia--no, not even for\na moment!\"\n\n\"I can't see the great harm of it all, for my part,\" said Mrs.\nGibson, plaintively. \"A young man strikes us all as looking very\nill--and I'm sure I'm sorry for it; but illness very often leads to\ndeath. Surely you agree with me there, and what's the harm of saying\nso? Then Molly asks what will happen if he dies; and I try to answer\nher question. I don't like talking or thinking of death any more than\nany one else; but I should think myself wanting in strength of mind\nif I could not look forward to the consequences of death. I really\nthink we're commanded to do so, somewhere in the Bible or the\nPrayer-book.\"\n\n\"Do you look forward to the consequences of my death, mamma?\" asked\nCynthia.\n\n\"You really are the most unfeeling girl I ever met with,\" said Mrs.\nGibson, really hurt. \"I wish I could give you a little of my own\nsensitiveness, for I have too much for my happiness. Don't let us\nspeak of Osborne's looks again; ten to one it was only some temporary\nover-fatigue, or some anxiety about Roger, or perhaps a little fit\nof indigestion. I was very foolish to attribute it to anything more\nserious, and dear papa might be displeased if he knew I had done\nso. Medical men don't like other people to be making conjectures\nabout health; they consider it as trenching on their own particular\nprovince, and very proper, I'm sure. Now let us consider about your\ndress, Cynthia; I could not understand how you had spent your money,\nand made so little show with it.\"\n\n\"Mamma! it may sound very cross, but I must tell Molly, and you, and\neverybody, once for all, that as I don't want and didn't ask for more\nthan my allowance, I'm not going to answer any questions about what\nI do with it.\" She did not say this with any want of respect; but she\nsaid it with quiet determination, which subdued her mother for the\ntime; though often afterwards, when Mrs. Gibson and Molly were alone,\nthe former would start the wonder as to what Cynthia could possibly\nhave done with her money, and hunt each poor conjecture through woods\nand valleys of doubt, till she was wearied out; and the exciting\nsport was given up for the day. At present, however, she confined\nherself to the practical matter in hand; and the genius for millinery\nand dress, inherent in both mother and daughter, soon settled a great\nmany knotty points of contrivance and taste, and then they all three\nset to work to \"gar auld claes look amaist as weel's the new.\"\n\nCynthia's relations with the Squire had been very stationary ever\nsince the visit she had paid to the Hall the previous autumn. He had\nreceived them all at that time with hospitable politeness, and he\nhad been more charmed with Cynthia than he liked to acknowledge to\nhimself when he thought the visit all over afterwards.\n\n\"She's a pretty lass, sure enough,\" thought he, \"and has pretty ways\nabout her too, and likes to learn from older people, which is a good\nsign; but somehow I don't like madam her mother; but still she is her\nmother, and the girl's her daughter; yet she spoke to her once or\ntwice as I shouldn't ha' liked our little Fanny to have spoken, if\nit had pleased God for her to ha' lived. No, it's not the right way,\nand it may be a bit old-fashioned, but I like the right way. And then\nagain she took possession o' me, as I may say, and little Molly had\nto run after us in the garden walks that are too narrow for three,\njust like a little four-legged doggie; and the other was so full of\nlistening to me, she never turned round for to speak a word to Molly.\nI don't mean to say they're not fond of each other, and that's in\nRoger's sweetheart's favour; and it's very ungrateful in me to go and\nfind fault with a lass who was so civil to me, and had such a pretty\nway with her of hanging on every word that fell from my lips. Well!\na deal may come and go in two years! and the lad says nothing to me\nabout it. I'll be as deep as him, and take no more notice of the\naffair till he comes home and tells me himself.\"\n\nSo although the Squire was always delighted to receive the little\nnotes which Cynthia sent him every time she heard from Roger, and\nalthough this attention on her part was melting the heart he tried\nto harden, he controlled himself into writing her the briefest\nacknowledgments. His words were strong in meaning, but formal\nin expression; she herself did not think much about them, being\nsatisfied to do the kind actions that called them forth. But her\nmother criticised them and pondered them. She thought she had hit\non the truth when she decided in her own mind that it was a very\nold-fashioned style, and that he and his house and his furniture\nall wanted some of the brightening up and polishing which they were\nsure to receive, when--she never quite liked to finish the sentence\ndefinitely, although she kept repeating to herself that \"there was no\nharm in it.\"\n\nTo return to the Squire. Occupied as he now was, he recovered his\nformer health, and something of his former cheerfulness. If Osborne\nhad met him half-way, it is probable that the old bond between father\nand son might have been renewed; but Osborne either was really an\ninvalid, or had sunk into invalid habits, and made no effort to\nrally. If his father urged him to go out--nay, once or twice he\ngulped down his pride, and asked Osborne to accompany him--Osborne\nwould go to the window and find out some flaw or speck in the wind\nor weather, and make that an excuse for stopping in-doors over his\nbooks. He would saunter out on the sunny side of the house in a\nmanner that the Squire considered as both indolent and unmanly. Yet\nif there was a prospect of his leaving home, which he did pretty\noften about this time, he was seized with a hectic energy: the clouds\nin the sky, the easterly wind, the dampness of the air, were nothing\nto him then; and as the Squire did not know the real secret cause\nof this anxiety to be gone, he took it into his head that it arose\nfrom Osborne's dislike to Hamley and to the monotony of his father's\nsociety.\n\n\"It was a mistake,\" thought the Squire. \"I see it now. I was never\ngreat at making friends myself: I always thought those Oxford and\nCambridge men turned up their noses at me for a country booby, and\nI'd get the start and have none o' them. But when the boys went to\nRugby and Cambridge, I should ha' let them have had their own friends\nabout 'em, even though they might ha' looked down on me; it was the\nworst they could ha' done to me; and now what few friends I had have\nfallen off from me, by death or somehow, and it is but dreary work\nfor a young man, I grant it. But he might try not to show it so plain\nto me as he does. I'm getting case-hardened, but it does cut me to\nthe quick sometimes--it does. And he so fond of his dad as he was\nonce! If I can but get the land drained I'll make him an allowance,\nand let him go to London, or where he likes. Maybe he'll do better\nthis time, or maybe he'll go to the dogs altogether; but perhaps it\nwill make him think a bit kindly of the old father at home--I should\nlike him to do that, I should!\"\n\nIt is possible that Osborne might have been induced to tell his\nfather of his marriage during their long solitary intercourse, if the\nSquire, in an unlucky moment, had not given him his confidence about\nRoger's engagement with Cynthia. It was on one wet Sunday afternoon,\nwhen the father and son were sitting together in the large empty\ndrawing-room. Osborne had not been to church in the morning; the\nSquire had, and he was now trying hard to read one of Blair's\nsermons. They had dined early; they always did on Sundays; and either\nthat, or the sermon, or the hopeless wetness of the day, made the\nafternoon seem interminably long to the Squire. He had certain\nunwritten rules for the regulation of his conduct on Sundays. Cold\nmeat, sermon-reading, no smoking till after evening prayers, as\nlittle thought as possible as to the state of the land and the\ncondition of the crops, and as much respectable sitting in-doors in\nhis best clothes as was consistent with going to church twice a day,\nand saying the responses louder than the clerk. To-day it had rained\nso unceasingly that he had remitted the afternoon church; but oh,\neven with the luxury of a nap, how long it seemed before he saw the\nHall servants trudging homewards, along the field-path, a covey of\numbrellas! He had been standing at the window for the last half-hour,\nhis hands in his pockets, and his mouth often contracting itself into\nthe traditional sin of a whistle, but as often checked into sudden\ngravity--ending, nine times out of ten, in a yawn. He looked askance\nat Osborne, who was sitting near the fire absorbed in a book. The\npoor Squire was something like the little boy in the child's story,\nwho asks all sorts of birds and beasts to come and play with him;\nand, in every case, receives the sober answer, that they are too busy\nto have leisure for trivial amusements. The father wanted the son to\nput down his book, and talk to him: it was so wet, so dull, and a\nlittle conversation would so wile away the time! But Osborne, with\nhis back to the window where his father was standing, saw nothing\nof all this, and went on reading. He had assented to his father's\nremark that it was a very wet afternoon, but had not carried on the\nsubject into all the varieties of truisms of which it was susceptible.\nSomething more rousing must be started, and this the Squire felt. The\nrecollection of the affair between Roger and Cynthia came into his\nhead, and, without giving it a moment's consideration, he began,--\n\n\"Osborne! Do you know anything about this--this attachment of\nRoger's?\"\n\nQuite successful. Osborne laid down his book in a moment, and turned\nround to his father.\n\n\"Roger! an attachment! No! I never heard of it--I can hardly believe\nit--that is to say, I suppose it is to--\"\n\nAnd then he stopped; for he thought he had no right to betray his own\nconjecture that the object was Cynthia Kirkpatrick.\n\n\"Yes. He is though. Can you guess who to? Nobody that I particularly\nlike--not a connection to my mind--yet she's a very pretty girl; and\nI suppose I was to blame in the first instance.\"\n\n\"Is it--?\"\n\n\"It's no use beating about the bush. I've gone so far, I may as well\ntell you all. It's Miss Kirkpatrick, Gibson's stepdaughter. But it's\nnot an engagement, mind you--\"\n\n\"I'm very glad--I hope she likes Roger back again--\"\n\n\"Like--it's only too good a connection for her not to like it: if\nRoger is of the same mind when he comes home, I'll be bound she'll be\nonly too happy!\"\n\n\"I wonder Roger never told me,\" said Osborne, a little hurt, now he\nbegan to consider himself.\n\n\"He never told me either,\" said the Squire. \"It was Gibson, who came\nhere, and made a clean breast of it, like a man of honour. I'd been\nsaying to him, I couldn't have either of you two lads taking up with\nhis lasses. I'll own it was you I was afraid of--it's bad enough with\nRoger, and maybe will come to nothing after all; but if it had been\nyou, I'd ha' broken with Gibson and every mother's son of 'em, sooner\nthan have let it go on; and so I told Gibson.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but, once for all, I claim\nthe right of choosing my wife for myself, subject to no man's\ninterference,\" said Osborne, hotly.\n\n\"Then you'll keep your wife with no man's interference, that's all;\nfor ne'er a penny will you get from me, my lad, unless you marry to\nplease me a little, as well as yourself a great deal. That's all I\nask of you. I'm not particular as to beauty, or as to cleverness, and\npiano-playing, and that sort of thing; if Roger marries this girl, we\nshall have enough of that in the family. I shouldn't much mind her\nbeing a bit older than you, but she must be well-born, and the more\nmoney she brings the better for the old place.\"\n\n\"I say again, father, I choose my wife for myself, and I don't admit\nany man's right of dictation.\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" said the Squire, getting a little angry in his turn.\n\"If I'm not to be father in this matter, thou sha'n't be son. Go\nagainst me in what I've set my heart on, and you'll find there's the\ndevil to pay, that's all. But don't let us get angry, it's Sunday\nafternoon for one thing, and it's a sin; and besides that, I've not\nfinished my story.\"\n\nFor Osborne had taken up his book again, and under pretence of\nreading, was fuming to himself. He hardly put it away even at his\nfather's request.\n\n\"As I was saying, Gibson said, when first we spoke about it, that\nthere was nothing on foot between any of you four, and that if there\nwas, he would let me know; so by-and-by he comes and tells me of\nthis.\"\n\n\"Of what--I don't understand how far it has gone?\"\n\nThere was a tone in Osborne's voice the Squire did not quite like;\nand he began answering rather angrily.\n\n\"Of this, to be sure--of what I'm telling you--of Roger going and\nmaking love to this girl, that day he left, after he had gone away\nfrom here, and was waiting for the 'Umpire' in Hollingford. One would\nthink you quite stupid at times, Osborne.\"\n\n\"I can only say that these details are quite new to me; you never\nmentioned them before, I assure you.\"\n\n\"Well; never mind whether I did or not. I'm sure I said Roger was\nattached to Miss Kirkpatrick, and be hanged to her; and you might\nhave understood all the rest as a matter of course.\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" said Osborne, politely. \"May I ask if Miss Kirkpatrick,\nwho appeared to me to be a very nice girl, responds to Roger's\naffection?\"\n\n\"Fast enough, I'll be bound,\" said the Squire, sulkily. \"A Hamley of\nHamley isn't to be had every day. Now, I'll tell you what, Osborne,\nyou're the only marriageable one left in the market, and I want to\nhoist the old family up again. Don't go against me in this; it really\nwill break my heart if you do.\"\n\n\"Father, don't talk so,\" said Osborne. \"I'll do anything I can to\noblige you, except--\"\n\n\"Except the only thing I've set my heart on your doing.\"\n\n\"Well, well, let it alone for the present. There's no question of my\nmarrying just at this moment. I'm out of health, and I'm not up to\ngoing into society, and meeting young ladies and all that sort of\nthing, even if I had an opening into fitting society.\"\n\n\"You should have an opening fast enough. There'll be more money\ncoming in, in a year or two, please God. And as for your health, why,\nwhat's to make you well, if you cower over the fire all day, and\nshudder away from a good honest tankard as if it were poison?\"\n\n\"So it is to me,\" said Osborne, languidly, playing with his book as\nif he wanted to end the conversation and take it up again. The Squire\nsaw the movements, and understood them.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"I'll go and have a talk with Will about poor old\nBlack Bess. It's Sunday work enough, asking after a dumb animal's\naches and pains.\"\n\nBut after his father had left the room Osborne did not take up his\nbook again. He laid it down on the table by him, leant back in his\nchair, and covered his eyes with his hand. He was in a state of\nhealth which made him despondent about many things, though, least\nof all, about what was most in danger. The long concealment of his\nmarriage from his father made the disclosure of it far, far more\ndifficult than it would have been at first. Unsupported by Roger, how\ncould he explain it all to one so passionate as the Squire? how tell\nof the temptation, the stolen marriage, the consequent happiness, and\nalas! the consequent suffering?--for Osborne had suffered, and did\nsuffer, greatly in the untoward circumstances in which he had placed\nhimself. He saw no way out of it all, excepting by the one strong\nstroke of which he felt himself incapable. So with a heavy heart he\naddressed himself to his book again. Everything seemed to come in his\nway, and he was not strong enough in character to overcome obstacles.\nThe only overt step he took in consequence of what he had heard from\nhis father, was to ride over to Hollingford the first fine day after\nhe had received the news, and go to see Cynthia and the Gibsons. He\nhad not been there for a long time; bad weather and languor combined\nhad prevented him. He found them full of preparations and discussions\nabout Cynthia's visit to London; and she herself not at all in\nthe sentimental mood proper to respond to his delicate intimations\nof how glad he was in his brother's joy. Indeed, it was so long\nafter the time, that Cynthia scarcely perceived that to him the\nintelligence was recent, and that the first bloom of his emotions\nhad not yet passed away. With her head a little on one side,\nshe was contemplating the effect of a knot of ribbons, when he\nbegan, in a low whisper, and leaning forward towards her as he\nspoke,--\"Cynthia--I may call you Cynthia now, mayn't I?--I'm so glad\nof this news; I've only just heard of it, but I'm so glad!\"\n\n\"What news do you mean?\" She had her suspicions; but she was annoyed\nto think that from one person her secret was passing to another and\nanother, till, in fact, it was becoming no secret at all. Still,\nCynthia could always conceal her annoyance when she chose. \"Why are\nyou to begin calling me Cynthia now?\" she went on, smiling. \"The\nterrible word has slipped out from between your lips before, do you\nknow?\"\n\nThis light way of taking his tender congratulation did not quite\nplease Osborne, who was in a sentimental mood, and for a minute or so\nhe remained silent. Then, having finished making her bow of ribbon,\nshe turned to him, and continued in a quick low voice, anxious to\ntake advantage of a conversation between her mother and Molly,--\n\n\"I think I can guess why you made that pretty little speech just\nnow. But do you know you ought not to have been told? And, moreover,\nthings are not quite arrived at the solemnity of--of--well--an\nengagement. He would not have it so. Now, I sha'n't say any more; and\nyou must not. Pray remember you ought not to have known; it is my\nown secret, and I particularly wished it not to be spoken about; and\nI don't like its being so talked about. Oh, the leaking of water\nthrough one small hole!\"\n\nAnd then she plunged into the talk of the other two, making the\nconversation general. Osborne was rather discomfited at the\nnon-success of his congratulations; he had pictured to himself the\nunbosoming of a love-sick girl, full of rapture, and glad of a\nsympathizing confidant. He little knew Cynthia's nature. The more she\nsuspected that she was called upon for a display of emotion, the less\nwould she show; and her emotions were generally under the control of\nher will. He had made an effort to come and see her; and now he leant\nback in his chair, weary and a little dispirited.\n\n\"You poor dear young man,\" said Mrs. Gibson, coming up to him with\nher soft, soothing manner; \"how tired you look! Do take some of that\neau-de-Cologne and bathe your forehead. This spring weather overcomes\nme too. 'Primavera' I think the Italians call it. But it is very\ntrying for delicate constitutions, as much from its associations as\nfrom its variableness of temperature. It makes me sigh perpetually;\nbut then I am so sensitive. Dear Lady Cumnor always used to say I was\nlike a thermometer. You've heard how ill she has been?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Osborne, not very much caring either.\n\n\"Oh, yes, she is better now; but the anxiety about her has tried me\nso: detained here by what are, of course, my duties, but far away\nfrom all intelligence, and not knowing what the next post might\nbring.\"\n\n\"Where was she then?\" asked Osborne, becoming a little more\nsympathetic.\n\n\"At Spa. Such a distance off! Three days' post! Can't you conceive\nthe trial? Living with her as I did for years; bound up in the family\nas I was.\"\n\n\"But Lady Harriet said, in her last letter, that they hoped she would\nbe stronger than she had been for years,\" said Molly, innocently.\n\n\"Yes--Lady Harriet--of course--every one who knows Lady Harriet knows\nthat she is of too sanguine a temperament for her statements to be\nperfectly relied on. Altogether--strangers are often deluded by Lady\nHarriet--she has an off-hand manner which takes them in; but she does\nnot mean half she says.\"\n\n\"We will hope she does in this instance,\" said Cynthia, shortly.\n\"They're in London now, and Lady Cumnor hasn't suffered from the\njourney.\"\n\n\"They say so,\" said Mrs. Gibson, shaking her head, and laying an\nemphasis on the word \"say.\" \"I am perhaps over-anxious, but I wish--I\nwish I could see and judge for myself. It would be the only way of\ncalming my anxiety. I almost think I shall go up with you, Cynthia,\nfor a day or two, just to see her with my own eyes. I don't quite\nlike your travelling alone either. We will think about it, and you\nshall write to Mr. Kirkpatrick, and propose it, if we determine upon\nit. You can tell him of my anxiety; and it will be only sharing your\nbed for a couple of nights.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\nMOLLY GIBSON BREATHES FREELY.\n\n\nThat was the way in which Mrs. Gibson first broached her intention\nof accompanying Cynthia up to London for a few days' visit. She had\na trick of producing the first sketch of any new plan before an\noutsider to the family circle; so that the first emotions of others,\nif they disapproved of her projects, had to be repressed, until the\nidea had become familiar to them. To Molly it seemed too charming\na proposal ever to come to pass. She had never allowed herself to\nrecognize the restraint she was under in her stepmother's presence;\nbut all at once she found it out when her heart danced at the idea\nof three whole days--for that it would be at the least--of perfect\nfreedom of intercourse with her father; of old times come back again;\nof meals without perpetual fidgetiness after details of ceremony and\ncorrectness of attendance.\n\n\"We'll have bread-and-cheese for dinner, and eat it on our knees;\nwe'll make up for having had to eat sloppy puddings with a fork\ninstead of a spoon all this time, by putting our knives in our mouths\ntill we cut ourselves. Papa shall pour his tea into his saucer if\nhe's in a hurry; and if I'm thirsty, I'll take the slop-basin. And\noh, if I could but get, buy, borrow, or steal any kind of an old\nhorse; my grey skirt isn't new, but it will do;--that would be too\ndelightful! After all, I think I can be happy again; for months and\nmonths it has seemed as if I had got too old ever to feel pleasure,\nmuch less happiness again.\"\n\nSo thought Molly. Yet she blushed, as if with guilt, when Cynthia,\nreading her thoughts, said to her one day,--\n\n\"Molly, you're very glad to get rid of us, are not you?\"\n\n\"Not of you, Cynthia; at least, I don't think I am. Only, if you but\nknew how I love papa, and how I used to see a great deal more of him\nthan I ever do now--\"\n\n\"Ah! I often think what interlopers we must seem, and are in fact--\"\n\n\"I don't feel you as such. You, at any rate, have been a new delight\nto me--a sister; and I never knew how charming such a relationship\ncould be.\"\n\n\"But mamma?\" said Cynthia, half-suspiciously, half-sorrowfully.\n\n\"She is papa's wife,\" said Molly, quietly. \"I don't mean to say I'm\nnot often very sorry to feel I'm no longer first with him; but it\nwas\"--the violent colour flushed into her face till even her eyes\nburnt, and she suddenly found herself on the point of crying; the\nweeping ash-tree, the misery, the slow dropping comfort, and the\ncomforter came all so vividly before her--\"it was Roger!\"--she went\non looking up at Cynthia, as she overcame her slight hesitation at\nmentioning his name--\"Roger, who told me how I ought to take papa's\nmarriage, when I was first startled and grieved at the news. Oh,\nCynthia, what a great thing it is to be loved by him!\"\n\nCynthia blushed, and looked fluttered and pleased.\n\n\"Yes, I suppose it is. At the same time, Molly, I'm afraid he'll\nexpect me to be always as good as he fancies me now, and I shall have\nto walk on tiptoe all the rest of my life.\"\n\n\"But you are good, Cynthia,\" put in Molly.\n\n\"No, I'm not. You're just as much mistaken as he is; and some day I\nshall go down in your opinions with a run, just like the hall clock\nthe other day when the spring broke.\"\n\n\"I think he'll love you just as much,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Could you? Would you be my friend if--if it turned out ever that I\nhad done very wrong things? Would you remember how very difficult it\nhas sometimes been to me to act rightly?\" (she took hold of Molly's\nhand as she spoke). \"We won't speak of mamma, for your sake as much\nas mine or hers; but you must see she isn't one to help a girl with\nmuch good advice, or good-- Oh, Molly, you don't know how I was\nneglected just at a time when I wanted friends most. Mamma does not\nknow it; it is not in her to know what I might have been if I had\nonly fallen into wise, good hands. But I know it; and what's more,\"\ncontinued she, suddenly ashamed of her unusual exhibition of feeling,\n\"I try not to care, which I daresay is really the worst of all; but I\ncould worry myself to death if I once took to serious thinking.\"\n\n\"I wish I could help you, or even understand you,\" said Molly, after\na moment or two of sad perplexity.\n\n\"You can help me,\" said Cynthia, changing her manner abruptly. \"I can\ntrim bonnets, and make head-dresses; but somehow my hands can't fold\nup gowns and collars, like your deft little fingers. Please will\nyou help me to pack? That's a real, tangible piece of kindness, and\nnot sentimental consolation for sentimental distresses, which are,\nperhaps, imaginary after all.\"\n\nIn general, it is the people that are left behind stationary, who\ngive way to low spirits at any parting; the travellers, however\nbitterly they may feel the separation, find something in the change\nof scene to soften regret in the very first hour of separation. But\nas Molly walked home with her father from seeing Mrs. Gibson and\nCynthia off to London by the \"Umpire\" coach, she almost danced along\nthe street.\n\n\"Now, papa!\" said she, \"I'm going to have you all to myself for a\nwhole week. You must be very obedient.\"\n\n\"Don't be tyrannical, then. You're walking me out of breath, and\nwe're cutting Mrs. Goodenough, in our hurry.\"\n\nSo they crossed over the street to speak to Mrs. Goodenough.\n\n\"We've just been seeing my wife and her daughter off to London. Mrs.\nGibson has gone up for a week!\"\n\n\"Deary, deary, to London, and only for a week! Why, I can remember\nits being a three days' journey! It'll be very lonesome for you, Miss\nMolly, without your young companion!\"\n\n\"Yes!\" said Molly, suddenly feeling as if she ought to have taken\nthis view of the case. \"I shall miss Cynthia very much.\"\n\n\"And you, Mr. Gibson; why, it'll be like being a widower over again!\nYou must come and drink tea with me some evening. We must try and\ncheer you up a bit amongst us. Shall it be Tuesday?\"\n\nIn spite of the sharp pinch which Molly gave to his arm, Mr. Gibson\naccepted the invitation, much to the gratification of the old lady.\n\n\"Papa, how could you go and waste one of our evenings! We have but\nsix in all, and now but five; and I had so reckoned on our doing all\nsorts of things together.\"\n\n\"What sort of things?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know: everything that is unrefined and ungenteel,\" added\nshe, slily looking up into her father's face.\n\nHis eyes twinkled, but the rest of his face was perfectly grave. \"I'm\nnot going to be corrupted. With toil and labour I've reached a very\nfair height of refinement. I won't be pulled down again.\"\n\n\"Yes, you will, papa. We'll have bread-and-cheese for lunch this\nvery day. And you shall wear your slippers in the drawing-room every\nevening you'll stay quietly at home; and oh, papa, don't you think I\ncould ride Nora Creina? I've been looking out the old grey skirt, and\nI think I could make myself tidy.\"\n\n\"Where is the side-saddle to come from?\"\n\n\"To be sure, the old one won't fit that great Irish mare. But I'm not\nparticular, papa. I think I could manage somehow.\"\n\n\"Thank you. But I'm not quite going to return into barbarism. It may\nbe a depraved taste, but I should like to see my daughter properly\nmounted.\"\n\n\"Think of riding together down the lanes--why, the dog-roses must be\nall out in flower, and the honeysuckles, and the hay--how I should\nlike to see Merriman's farm again! Papa, do let me have one ride with\nyou! Please do. I'm sure we can manage it somehow.\"\n\nAnd \"somehow\" it was managed. \"Somehow\" all Molly's wishes came to\npass; there was only one little drawback to this week of holiday and\nhappy intercourse with her father. Everybody would ask them out to\ntea. They were quite like bride and bridegroom; for the fact was,\nthat the late dinners which Mrs. Gibson had introduced into her own\nhouse, were a great inconvenience in the calculations of the small\ntea-drinkings at Hollingford. How ask people to tea at six, who dined\nat that hour? How, when they refused cake and sandwiches at half-past\neight, how induce other people who were really hungry to commit a\nvulgarity before those calm and scornful eyes? So there had been a\ngreat lull of invitations for the Gibsons to Hollingford tea-parties.\nMrs. Gibson, whose object was to squeeze herself into \"county\nsociety,\" had taken this being left out of the smaller festivities\nwith great equanimity; but Molly missed the kind homeliness of the\nparties to which she had gone from time to time as long as she could\nremember; and though, as each three-cornered note was brought in,\nshe grumbled a little over the loss of another charming evening\nwith her father, she really was glad to go again in the old way\namong old friends. Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe were especially\ncompassionate towards her in her loneliness. If they had had their\nwill she would have dined there every day; and she had to call upon\nthem very frequently in order to prevent their being hurt at her\ndeclining the dinners. Mrs. Gibson wrote twice during her week's\nabsence to her husband. That piece of news was quite satisfactory\nto the Miss Brownings, who had of late held themselves a great deal\naloof from a house where they chose to suppose that their presence\nwas not wanted. In their winter evenings they had often talked over\nMr. Gibson's household, and having little besides conjecture to go\nupon, they found the subject interminable, as they could vary the\npossibilities every day. One of their wonders was how Mr. and Mrs.\nGibson really got on together; another was whether Mrs. Gibson was\nextravagant or not. Now two letters during the week of her absence\nshowed what was in those days considered a very proper amount of\nconjugal affection. Yet not too much--at elevenpence-halfpenny\npostage. A third letter would have been extravagant. Sister looked to\nsister with an approving nod as Molly named the second letter, which\narrived in Hollingford the very day before Mrs. Gibson was to return.\nThey had settled between themselves that two letters would show the\nright amount of good feeling and proper understanding in the Gibson\nfamily: more would have been extravagant; only one would have been\na mere matter of duty. There had been rather a question between\nMiss Browning and Miss Phoebe as to which person the second letter\n(supposing it came) was to be addressed to. It would be very conjugal\nto write twice to Mr. Gibson; and yet it would be very pretty if\nMolly came in for her share.\n\n\"You've had another letter, you say, my dear?\" asked Miss Browning.\n\"I daresay Mrs. Gibson has written to you this time?\"\n\n\"It is a large sheet, and Cynthia has written on one half to me, and\nall the rest is to papa.\"\n\n\"A very nice arrangement, I'm sure. And what does Cynthia say? Is she\nenjoying herself?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I think so. They've had a dinner-party; and one night,\nwhen mamma was at Lady Cumnor's, Cynthia went to the play with her\ncousins.\"\n\n\"Upon my word! and all in one week? I do call that dissipation. Why,\nThursday would be taken up with the journey, and Friday with resting,\nand Sunday is Sunday all the world over; and they must have written\non Tuesday. Well! I hope Cynthia won't find Hollingford dull, that's\nall, when she comes back.\"\n\n\"I don't think it's likely,\" said Miss Phoebe, with a little simper\nand a knowing look, which sate oddly on her kindly innocent face.\n\"You see a great deal of Mr. Preston, don't you, Molly?\"\n\n\"Mr. Preston!\" said Molly, flushing up with surprise. \"No! not much.\nHe's been at Ashcombe all winter, you know! He has but just come back\nto settle here. What should make you think so?\"\n\n\"Oh! a little bird told us,\" said Miss Browning. Molly knew that\nlittle bird from her childhood, and had always hated it, and longed\nto wring its neck. Why could not people speak out and say that they\ndid not mean to give up the name of their informant? But it was a\nvery favourite form of fiction with the Miss Brownings, and to Miss\nPhoebe it was the very acme of wit.\n\n\"The little bird was flying about one day in Heath Lane, and it saw\nMr. Preston and a young lady--we won't say who--walking together in\na very friendly manner, that is to say, he was on horseback; but the\npath is raised above the road, just where there is the little wooden\nbridge over the brook--\"\n\n\"Perhaps Molly is in the secret, and we ought not to ask her about\nit,\" said Miss Phoebe, seeing Molly's extreme discomfiture and\nannoyance.\n\n\"It can be no great secret,\" said Miss Browning, dropping the\nlittle-bird formula, and assuming an air of dignified reproval at\nMiss Phoebe's interruption, \"for Miss Hornblower says Mr. Preston\nowns to being engaged--\"\n\n\"At any rate it isn't to Cynthia, that I know positively,\" said Molly\nwith some vehemence. \"And pray put a stop to any such reports; you\ndon't know what mischief they may do. I do so hate that kind of\nchatter!\" It was not very respectful of Molly to speak in this way\nto be sure, but she thought only of Roger; and the distress any such\nreports might cause, should he ever hear of them (in the centre of\nAfrica!) made her colour up scarlet with vexation.\n\n\"Heighty-teighty! Miss Molly! don't you remember that I am old enough\nto be your mother, and that it is not pretty behaviour to speak so to\nus--to me! 'Chatter' to be sure. Really, Molly--\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said Molly, only half-penitent.\n\n\"I daresay you did not mean to speak so to sister,\" said Miss\nPhoebe, trying to make peace.\n\nMolly did not answer all at once. She wanted to explain how much\nmischief might be done by such reports.\n\n\"But don't you see,\" she went on, still flushed by vexation, \"how\nbad it is to talk of such things in such a way? Supposing one of\nthem cared for some one else, and that might happen, you know; Mr.\nPreston, for instance, may be engaged to some one else?\"\n\n\"Molly! I pity the woman! Indeed I do. I have a very poor opinion of\nMr. Preston,\" said Miss Browning, in a warning tone of voice; for a\nnew idea had come into her head.\n\n\"Well, but the woman, or young lady, would not like to hear such\nreports about Mr. Preston.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. But for all that, take my word for it, he's a great\nflirt, and young ladies had better not have much to do with him.\"\n\n\"I daresay it was all accident their meeting in Heath Lane,\" said\nMiss Phoebe.\n\n\"I know nothing about it,\" said Molly, \"and I daresay I have been\nimpertinent, only please don't talk about it any more. I have my\nreasons for asking you.\" She got up, for by the striking of the\nchurch clock she had just found out that it was later than she had\nthought, and she knew that her father would be at home by this time.\nShe bent down and kissed Miss Browning's grave and passive face.\n\n\"How you are growing, Molly!\" said Miss Phoebe, anxious to cover\nover her sister's displeasure. \"'As tall and as straight as a\npoplar-tree!' as the old song says.\"\n\n\"Grow in grace, Molly, as well as in good looks!\" said Miss Browning,\nwatching her out of the room. As soon as she was fairly gone, Miss\nBrowning got up and shut the door quite securely, and then sitting\ndown near her sister, she said, in a low voice, \"Phoebe, it was\nMolly herself that was with Mr. Preston in Heath Lane that day when\nMrs. Goodenough saw them together!\"\n\n\"Gracious goodness me!\" exclaimed Miss Phoebe, receiving it at once\nas gospel. \"How do you know?\"\n\n\"By putting two and two together. Didn't you notice how red Molly\nwent, and then pale, and how she said she knew for a fact that Mr.\nPreston and Cynthia Kirkpatrick were not engaged?\"\n\n\"Perhaps not engaged; but Mrs. Goodenough saw them loitering\ntogether, all by their own two selves--\"\n\n\"Mrs. Goodenough only crossed Heath Lane at the Shire Oak, as she was\nriding in her phaeton,\" said Miss Browning sententiously. \"We all\nknow what a coward she is in a carriage, so that most likely she had\nonly half her wits about her, and her eyes are none of the best when\nshe is standing steady on the ground. Molly and Cynthia have got\ntheir new plaid shawls just alike, and they trim their bonnets alike,\nand Molly is grown as tall as Cynthia since Christmas. I was always\nafraid she'd be short and stumpy, but she's now as tall and slender\nas anyone need be. I'll answer for it, Mrs. Goodenough saw Molly, and\ntook her for Cynthia.\"\n\nWhen Miss Browning \"answered for it\" Miss Phoebe gave up doubting.\nShe sate some time in silence revolving her thoughts. Then she said:\n\n\"It wouldn't be such a very bad match after all, sister.\" She spoke\nvery meekly, awaiting her sister's sanction to her opinion.\n\n\"Phoebe, it would be a bad match for Mary Pearson's daughter. If\nI had known what I know now we'd never have had him to tea last\nSeptember.\"\n\n\"Why, what do you know?\" asked Miss Phoebe.\n\n\"Miss Hornblower told me many things; some that I don't think\nyou ought to hear, Phoebe. He was engaged to a very pretty Miss\nGregson, at Henwick, where he comes from; and her father made\ninquiries, and heard so much that was bad about him that he made his\ndaughter break off the match, and she's dead since!\"\n\n\"How shocking!\" said Miss Phoebe, duly impressed.\n\n\"Besides, he plays at billiards, and he bets at races, and some\npeople do say he keeps race-horses.\"\n\n\"But isn't it strange that the earl keeps him on as his agent?\"\n\n\"No! perhaps not. He's very clever about land, and very sharp in all\nlaw affairs; and my lord isn't bound to take notice--if indeed he\nknows--of the manner in which Mr. Preston talks when he has taken too\nmuch wine.\"\n\n\"Taken too much wine! Oh, sister, is he a drunkard? and we have had\nhim to tea!\"\n\n\"I didn't say he was a drunkard, Phoebe,\" said Miss Browning,\npettishly. \"A man may take too much wine occasionally, without being\na drunkard. Don't let me hear you using such coarse words, Phoebe!\"\n\nMiss Phoebe was silent for a time after this rebuke.\n\nPresently she said, \"I do hope it wasn't Molly Gibson.\"\n\n\"You may hope as much as you like, but I'm pretty sure it was.\nHowever, we'd better say nothing about it to Mrs. Goodenough; she has\ngot Cynthia into her head, and there let her rest. Time enough to set\nreports afloat about Molly when we know there's some truth in them.\nMr. Preston might do for Cynthia, who's been brought up in France,\nthough she has such pretty manners; but it may have made her not\nparticular. He must not, and he shall not, have Molly, if I go into\nchurch and forbid the banns myself; but I'm afraid--I'm afraid\nthere's something between her and him. We must keep on the look-out,\nPhoebe. I'll be her guardian angel, in spite of herself.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\nGATHERING CLOUDS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nMrs. Gibson came back full of rose-coloured accounts of London. Lady\nCumnor had been gracious and affectionate, \"so touched by my going\nup to see her so soon after her return to England,\" Lady Harriet\ncharming and devoted to her old governess, Lord Cumnor \"just like\nhis dear usual hearty self;\" and as for the Kirkpatricks, no Lord\nChancellor's house was ever grander than theirs, and the silk gown of\nthe Q.C. had floated over housemaids and footmen. Cynthia, too, was\nso much admired; and as for her dress, Mrs. Kirkpatrick had showered\ndown ball-dresses and wreaths, and pretty bonnets and mantles, like a\nfairy godmother. Mr. Gibson's poor present of ten pounds shrank into\nvery small dimensions compared with all this munificence.\n\n\"And they're so fond of her, I don't know when we shall have her\nback,\" was Mrs. Gibson's winding-up sentence. \"And now, Molly, what\nhave you and papa been doing? Very gay, you sounded in your letter.\nI had not time to read it in London; so I put it in my pocket, and\nread it in the coach coming home. But, my dear child, you do look\nso old-fashioned with your gown made all tight, and your hair all\ntumbling about in curls. Curls are quite gone out. We must do your\nhair differently,\" she continued, trying to smooth Molly's black\nwaves into straightness.\n\n\"I sent Cynthia an African letter,\" said Molly, timidly. \"Did you\nhear anything of what was in it?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, poor child! It made her very uneasy, I think; she said she\ndid not feel inclined to go to Mr. Rawson's ball, which was on that\nnight, and for which Mrs. Kirkpatrick had given her the ball-dress.\nBut there was really nothing for her to fidget herself about. Roger\nonly said he had had another touch of fever, but was better when he\nwrote. He says every European has to be acclimatized by fever in that\npart of Abyssinia where he is.\"\n\n\"And did she go?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"Yes, to be sure. It is not an engagement; and if it were, it is not\nacknowledged. Fancy her going and saying, 'A young man that I know\nhas been ill for a few days in Africa, two months ago, therefore I\ndon't want to go to the ball to-night.' It would have seemed like\naffectation of sentiment; and if there's one thing I hate it is\nthat.\"\n\n\"She would hardly enjoy herself,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Oh, yes, but she did. Her dress was white gauze, trimmed with\nlilacs, and she really did look--a mother may be allowed a little\nnatural partiality--most lovely. And she danced every dance, although\nshe was quite a stranger. I am sure she enjoyed herself, from her\nmanner of talking about it next morning.\"\n\n\"I wonder if the Squire knows.\"\n\n\"Knows what? Oh, yes, to be sure--you mean about Roger. I daresay he\ndoesn't, and there's no need to tell him, for I've no doubt it is all\nright now.\" And she went out of the room to finish her unpacking.\n\nMolly let her work fall, and sighed. \"It will be a year the day after\nto-morrow since he came here to propose our going to Hurst Wood, and\nmamma was so vexed at his calling before lunch. I wonder if Cynthia\nremembers it as well as I do. And now, perhaps-- Oh! Roger, Roger! I\nwish--I pray that you were safe home again! How could we all bear it,\nif--\"\n\nShe covered her face with her hands, and tried to stop thinking.\nSuddenly she got up, as if stung by a venomous fancy.\n\n\"I don't believe she loves him as she ought, or she could not--could\nnot have gone and danced. What shall I do if she does not? What shall\nI do? I can bear anything but that.\"\n\nBut she found the long suspense as to his health hard enough to\nendure. They were not likely to hear from him for a month at least,\nand before that time had elapsed Cynthia would be at home again.\nMolly learnt to long for her return before a fortnight of her absence\nwas over. She had had no idea that perpetual tête-à-têtes with Mrs.\nGibson could, by any possibility, be so tiresome as she found them.\nPerhaps Molly's state of delicate health, consequent upon her rapid\ngrowth during the last few months, made her irritable; but really\noften she had to get up and leave the room to calm herself down after\nlistening to a long series of words, more frequently plaintive or\ndiscontented in tone than cheerful, and which at the end conveyed\nno distinct impression of either the speaker's thought or feeling.\nWhenever anything had gone wrong, whenever Mr. Gibson had coolly\npersevered in anything to which she had objected; whenever the cook\nhad made a mistake about the dinner, or the housemaid broken any\nlittle frangible article; whenever Molly's hair was not done to her\nliking, or her dress did not become her, or the smell of dinner\npervaded the house, or the wrong callers came, or the right callers\ndid not come--in fact, whenever anything went wrong, poor Mr.\nKirkpatrick was regretted and mourned over, nay, almost blamed, as\nif, had he only given himself the trouble of living, he could have\nhelped it.\n\n\"When I look back to those happy days, it seems to me as if I had\nnever valued them as I ought. To be sure--youth, love,--what did we\ncare for poverty! I remember dear Mr. Kirkpatrick walking five miles\ninto Stratford to buy me a muffin because I had such a fancy for one\nafter Cynthia was born. I don't mean to complain of dear papa--but\nI don't think--but, perhaps I ought not to say it to you. If Mr.\nKirkpatrick had but taken care of that cough of his; but he was so\nobstinate! Men always are, I think. And it really was selfish of\nhim. Only I daresay he did not consider the forlorn state in which I\nshould be left. It came harder upon me than upon most people, because\nI always was of such an affectionate sensitive nature. I remember a\nlittle poem of Mr. Kirkpatrick's, in which he compared my heart to a\nharpstring, vibrating to the slightest breeze.\"\n\n\"I thought harpstrings required a pretty strong finger to make them\nsound,\" said Molly.\n\n\"My dear child, you've no more poetry in you than your father. And as\nfor your hair! it's worse than ever. Can't you drench it in water to\ntake those untidy twists and twirls out of it?\"\n\n\"It only makes it curl more and more when it gets dry,\" said Molly,\nsudden tears coming into her eyes as a recollection came before her\nlike a picture seen long ago and forgotten for years--a young mother\nwashing and dressing her little girl; placing the half-naked darling\non her knee, and twining the wet rings of dark hair fondly round her\nfingers, and then, in an ecstasy of fondness, kissing the little\ncurly head.\n\nThe receipt of Cynthia's letters made very agreeable events. She\ndid not write often, but her letters were tolerably long when they\ndid come, and very sprightly in tone. There was constant mention\nmade of many new names, which conveyed no idea to Molly, though Mrs.\nGibson would try and enlighten her by running commentaries like the\nfollowing:--\n\n\"Mrs. Green! ah, that's Mr. Jones's pretty cousin, who lives in\nRussell Square with the fat husband. They keep their carriage; but\nI'm not sure if it is not Mr. Green who is Mrs. Jones's cousin. We\ncan ask Cynthia when she comes home. Mr. Henderson! to be sure--a\nyoung man with black whiskers, a pupil of Mr. Kirkpatrick's\nformerly,--or was he a pupil of Mr. Murray's? I know they said he had\nread law with somebody. Ah, yes! they are the people who called the\nday after Mr. Rawson's ball, and who admired Cynthia so much, without\nknowing I was her mother. She was very handsomely dressed indeed, in\nblack satin; and the son had a glass eye, but he was a young man of\ngood property. Coleman! yes, that was the name.\"\n\nNo more news of Roger until some time after Cynthia had returned from\nher London visit. She came back looking fresher and prettier than\never, beautifully dressed, thanks to her own good taste, and her\ncousin's generosity, full of amusing details of the gay life she had\nbeen enjoying, yet not at all out of spirits at having left it behind\nher. She brought home all sorts of pretty and dainty devices for\nMolly; a neck-ribbon made up in the newest fashion, a pattern for a\ntippet, a delicate pair of light gloves, embroidered as Molly had\nnever seen gloves embroidered before, and many another little sign of\nremembrance during her absence. Yet somehow or other, Molly felt that\nCynthia was changed in her relation to her. Molly was aware that she\nhad never had Cynthia's full confidence, for with all her apparent\nfrankness and _naïveté_ of manner, Cynthia was extremely reserved and\nreticent. She knew this much of herself, and had often laughed about\nit to Molly, and the latter had by this time found out the truth of\nher friend's assertion. But Molly did not trouble herself much about\nit. She too knew that there were many thoughts and feelings that\nflitted through her mind which she should never think of telling\nto any one, except perhaps--if they were ever very much thrown\ntogether--to her father. She knew that Cynthia withheld from her more\nthan thoughts and feelings--that she withheld facts. But then, as\nMolly reflected, these facts might involve details of struggle and\nsuffering--might relate to her mother's neglect--and altogether be of\nso painful a character, that it would be well if Cynthia could forget\nher childhood altogether, instead of fixing it in her mind by the\nrelation of her grievances and troubles. So it was not now by any\nwant of confidence that Molly felt distanced as it were. It was\nbecause Cynthia rather avoided than sought her companionship; because\nher eyes shunned the straight, serious, loving look of Molly's;\nbecause there were certain subjects on which she evidently disliked\nspeaking, not particularly interesting things as far as Molly could\nperceive, but it almost seemed as if they lay on the road to points\nto be avoided. Molly felt a sort of sighing pleasure in noticing\nCynthia's changed manner of talking about Roger. She spoke of him\ntenderly now; \"poor Roger,\" as she called him; and Molly thought\nthat she must be referring to the illness which he had mentioned\nin his last letter. One morning in the first week after Cynthia's\nreturn home, just as he was going out, Mr. Gibson ran up into the\ndrawing-room, hat on, booted and spurred, and hastily laid an open\npamphlet down before her; pointing out a particular passage with\nhis finger, but not speaking a word before he rapidly quitted the\nroom. His eyes were sparkling, and had an amused as well as pleased\nexpression. All this Molly noticed, as well as Cynthia's flush of\ncolour as she read what was thus pointed out to her. Then she pushed\nit a little on one side, not closing the book, however, and went on\nwith her work.\n\n\"What is it? may I see it?\" asked Molly, stretching out her hand for\nthe pamphlet, which lay within her reach. But she did not take it\nuntil Cynthia had said--\n\n\"Certainly; I don't suppose there are any great secrets in a\nscientific journal, full of reports of meetings.\" And she gave the\nbook a little push towards Molly.\n\n\"Oh, Cynthia!\" said Molly, catching her breath as she read, \"are\nyou not proud?\" For it was an account of an annual gathering of the\nGeographical Society, and Lord Hollingford had read a letter he had\nreceived from Roger Hamley, dated from Arracuoba, a district in\nAfrica, hitherto unvisited by any intelligent European traveller; and\nabout which Mr. Hamley sent many curious particulars. The reading of\nthis letter had been received with the greatest interest, and several\nsubsequent speakers had paid the writer very high compliments.\n\nBut Molly might have known Cynthia better than to expect an answer\nresponsive to the feelings that prompted her question. Let Cynthia\nbe ever so proud, ever so glad, or so grateful, or even indignant,\nremorseful, grieved or sorry, the very fact that she was expected by\nanother to entertain any of these emotions, would have been enough to\nprevent her expressing them.\n\n\"I'm afraid I'm not as much struck by the wonder of the thing as you\nare, Molly. Besides, it is not news to me; at least, not entirely.\nI heard about the meeting before I left London; it was a good deal\ntalked about in my uncle's set; to be sure, I didn't hear all the\nfine things they say of him there--but then, you know, that's a mere\nfashion of speaking, which means nothing; somebody is bound to pay\ncompliments when a lord takes the trouble to read one of his letters\naloud.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Molly. \"You know you don't believe what you are\nsaying, Cynthia.\"\n\nCynthia gave that pretty little jerk of her shoulders, which was her\nequivalent for a French shrug, but did not lift up her head from her\nsewing. Molly began to read the report over again.\n\n\"Why, Cynthia!\" she said, \"you might have been there; ladies were\nthere. It says 'many ladies were present.' Oh, couldn't you have\nmanaged to go? If your uncle's set cared about these things, wouldn't\nsome of them have taken you?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, if I had asked them. But I think they would have been\nrather astonished at my sudden turn for science.\"\n\n\"You might have told your uncle how matters really stood, he wouldn't\nhave talked about it if you had wished him not, I am sure, and he\ncould have helped you.\"\n\n\"Once for all, Molly,\" said Cynthia, now laying down her work, and\nspeaking with quick authority, \"do learn to understand that it is,\nand always has been my wish, not to have the relation which Roger and\nI bear to each other, mentioned or talked about. When the right time\ncomes, I will make it known to my uncle, and to everybody whom it may\nconcern; but I am not going to make mischief, and get myself into\ntrouble--even for the sake of hearing compliments paid to him--by\nletting it out before the time. If I'm pushed to it, I'd sooner\nbreak it off altogether at once, and have done with it. I can't be\nworse off than I am now.\" Her angry tone had changed into a kind of\ndesponding complaint before she had ended her sentence. Molly looked\nat her with dismay.\n\n\"I can't understand you, Cynthia,\" she said at length.\n\n\"No; I daresay you can't,\" said Cynthia, looking at her with tears\nin her eyes, and very tenderly, as if in atonement for her late\nvehemence. \"I am afraid--I hope you never will.\"\n\nIn a moment, Molly's arms were round her. \"Oh, Cynthia,\" she\nmurmured, \"have I been plaguing you? Have I vexed you? Don't say\nyou're afraid of my knowing you. Of course you've your faults,\neverybody has, but I think I love you the better for them.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I am so very bad,\" said Cynthia, smiling a little\nthrough the tears that Molly's words and caresses had forced to\noverflow from her eyes. \"But I have got into scrapes. I'm in a scrape\nnow. I do sometimes believe I shall always be in scrapes, and if they\never come to light, I shall seem to be worse than I really am; and I\nknow your father will throw me off, and I--no, I won't be afraid that\nyou will, Molly.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I won't. Are they--do you think--how would Roger take it?\"\nasked Molly, very timidly.\n\n\"I don't know. I hope he will never hear of it. I don't see why he\nshould, for in a little while I shall be quite clear again. It all\ncame about without my ever thinking I was doing wrong. I've a great\nmind to tell you all about it, Molly.\"\n\nMolly did not like to urge it, though she longed to know, and to see\nif she could not offer help; but while Cynthia was hesitating, and\nperhaps, to say the truth, rather regretting that she had even made\nthis slight advance towards bestowing her confidence, Mrs. Gibson\ncame in, full of some manner of altering a gown of hers, so as to\nmake it into the fashion of the day, as she had seen it during her\nvisit to London. Cynthia seemed to forget her tears and her troubles,\nand to throw her whole soul into millinery.\n\nCynthia's correspondence went on pretty briskly with her London\ncousins, according to the usual rate of correspondence in those\ndays. Indeed, Mrs. Gibson was occasionally inclined to complain of\nthe frequency of Helen Kirkpatrick's letters; for before the penny\npost came in, the recipient had to pay the postage of letters; and\neleven-pence-halfpenny three times a week came, according to Mrs.\nGibson's mode of reckoning when annoyed, to a sum \"between three\nand four shillings.\" But these complaints were only for the family;\nthey saw the wrong side of the tapestry. Hollingford in general,\nMiss Brownings in particular, heard of \"dear Helen's enthusiastic\nfriendship for Cynthia,\" and of \"the real pleasure it was to receive\nsuch constant news--relays of news indeed--from London. It was almost\nas good as living there!\"\n\n\"A great deal better I should think,\" said Miss Browning with some\nseverity. For she had got many of her notions of the metropolis\nfrom the British Essayists, where town is so often represented as\nthe centre of dissipation, corrupting country wives and squires'\ndaughters, and unfitting them for all their duties by the constant\nwhirl of its not always innocent pleasures. London was a sort of\nmoral pitch, which few could touch and not be defiled. Miss Browning\nhad been on the watch for the signs of deterioration in Cynthia's\ncharacter ever since her return home. But, except in a greater number\nof pretty and becoming articles of dress, there was no great change\nfor the worse to be perceived. Cynthia had been \"in the world,\" had\n\"beheld the glare and glitter and dazzling display of London,\" yet\nhad come back to Hollingford as ready as ever to place a chair for\nMiss Browning, or to gather flowers for a nosegay for Miss Phoebe,\nor to mend her own clothes. But all this was set down to the merits\nof Cynthia, not to the credit of London-town.\n\n\"As far as I can judge of London,\" said Miss Browning, sententiously\ncontinuing her tirade against the place, \"it's no better than a\npickpocket and a robber dressed up in the spoils of honest folk. I\nshould like to know where my Lord Hollingford was bred, and Mr. Roger\nHamley. Your good husband lent me that report of the meeting, Mrs.\nGibson, where so much was said about them both, and he was as proud\nof their praises as if he had been akin to them, and Phoebe read\nit aloud to me, for the print was too small for my eyes; she was a\ngood deal perplexed with all the new names of places, but I said\nshe had better skip them all, for we had never heard of them before\nand probably should never hear of them again, but she read out the\nfine things they said of my lord, and Mr. Roger, and I put it to\nyou, where were they born and bred? Why, within eight miles of\nHollingford; it might have been Molly there or me; it's all a chance;\nand then they go and talk about the pleasures of intellectual society\nin London, and the distinguished people up there that it is such an\nadvantage to know, and all the time I know it's only shops and the\nplay that's the real attraction. But that's neither here nor there.\nWe all put our best foot foremost, and if we have a reason to give\nthat looks sensible we speak it out like men, and never say anything\nabout the silliness we are hugging to our hearts. But I ask you\nagain, where does this fine society come from, and these wise men,\nand these distinguished travellers? Why, out of country parishes like\nthis! London picks 'em all up, and decks herself with them, and then\ncalls out loud to the folks she's robbed, and says, 'Come and see\nhow fine I am.' Fine, indeed! I've no patience with London: Cynthia\nis much better out of it; and I'm not sure, if I were you, Mrs.\nGibson, if I wouldn't stop up those London letters: they'll only be\nunsettling her.\"\n\n\"But perhaps she may live in London some of these days, Miss\nBrowning,\" simpered Mrs. Gibson.\n\n\"Time enough then to be thinking of London. I wish her an honest\ncountry husband with enough to live upon, and a little to lay by,\nand a good character to boot. Mind that, Molly,\" said she, firing\nround upon the startled Molly; \"I wish Cynthia a husband with a good\ncharacter; but she's got a mother to look after her; you've none, and\nwhen your mother was alive she was a dear friend of mine: so I'm not\ngoing to let you throw yourself away upon any one whose life isn't\nclear and above-board, you may depend upon it!\"\n\nThis last speech fell like a bomb into the quiet little drawing-room,\nit was delivered with such vehemence. Miss Browning, in her secret\nheart, meant it as a warning against the intimacy she believed that\nMolly had formed with Mr. Preston; but as it happened that Molly had\nnever dreamed of any such intimacy, the girl could not imagine why\nsuch severity of speech should be addressed to her. Mrs. Gibson, who\nalways took up the points of every word or action where they touched\nher own self (and called it sensitiveness), broke the silence that\nfollowed Miss Browning's speech by saying, plaintively,--\n\n\"I'm sure, Miss Browning, you are very much mistaken if you think\nthat any mother could take more care of Molly than I do. I don't--I\ncan't think there is any need for any one to interfere to protect\nher, and I have not an idea why you have been talking in this way,\njust as if we were all wrong, and you were all right. It hurts my\nfeelings, indeed it does; for Molly can tell you there is not a thing\nor a favour that Cynthia has, that she has not. And as for not taking\ncare of her, why, if she were to go up to London to-morrow, I should\nmake a point of going with her to see after her; and I never did\nit for Cynthia when she was at school in France; and her bedroom\nis furnished just like Cynthia's, and I let her wear my red shawl\nwhenever she likes--she might have it oftener if she would. I can't\nthink what you mean, Miss Browning.\"\n\n\"I did not mean to offend you, but I meant just to give Molly a hint.\nShe understands what I mean.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't,\" said Molly, boldly. \"I haven't a notion what you\nmeant, if you were alluding to anything more than you said straight\nout,--that you do not wish me to marry any one who hasn't a good\ncharacter, and that, as you were a friend of mamma's, you would\nprevent my marrying a man with a bad character, by every means in\nyour power. I'm not thinking of marrying; I don't want to marry\nanybody at all; but if I did, and he were not a good man, I should\nthank you for coming and warning me of it.\"\n\n\"I shall not stand on warning you, Molly. I shall forbid the banns in\nchurch, if need be,\" said Miss Browning, half convinced of the clear\ntransparent truth of what Molly had said--blushing all over, it is\ntrue, but with her steady eyes fixed on Miss Browning's face while\nshe spoke.\n\n\"Do!\" said Molly.\n\n\"Well, well, I won't say any more. Perhaps I was mistaken. We won't\nsay any more about it. But remember what I have said, Molly; there's\nno harm in that, at any rate. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, Mrs.\nGibson. As stepmothers go, I think you try and do your duty. Good\nmorning. Good-by to you both, and God bless you.\"\n\nIf Miss Browning thought that her final blessing would secure peace\nin the room she was leaving, she was very much mistaken; Mrs. Gibson\nburst out with,--\n\n\"Try and do my duty, indeed! I should be much obliged to you, Molly,\nif you would take care not to behave in such a manner as to bring\ndown upon me such impertinence as I have just been receiving from\nMiss Browning.\"\n\n\"But I don't know what made her talk as she did, mamma,\" said Molly.\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know, and I don't care either. But I know\nthat I never was spoken to as if I was trying to do my duty\nbefore,--'trying' indeed! everybody always knew that I did it,\nwithout talking about it before my face in that rude manner. I've\nthat deep feeling about duty that I think it ought only to be talked\nabout in church, and in such sacred places as that; not to have a\ncommon caller startling one with it, even though she was an early\nfriend of your mother's. And as if I didn't look after you quite as\nmuch as I look after Cynthia! Why, it was only yesterday I went up\ninto Cynthia's room and found her reading a letter that she put away\nin a hurry as soon as I came in, and I didn't even ask her who it was\nfrom, and I'm sure I should have made you tell me.\"\n\nVery likely. Mrs. Gibson shrank from any conflicts with Cynthia,\npretty sure that she would be worsted in the end; while Molly\ngenerally submitted sooner than have any struggle for her own will.\n\nJust then Cynthia came in.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" said she quickly, seeing that something was\nwrong.\n\n\"Why, Molly has been doing something which has set that impertinent\nMiss Browning off into lecturing me on trying to do my duty! If your\npoor father had but lived, Cynthia, I should never have been spoken\nto as I have been. 'A stepmother trying to do her duty,' indeed! That\nwas Miss Browning's expression.\"\n\nAny allusion to her father took from Cynthia all desire of irony. She\ncame forward, and again asked Molly what was the matter.\n\nMolly, herself ruffled, made answer,--\n\n\"Miss Browning seemed to think I was likely to marry some one whose\ncharacter was objectionable--\"\n\n\"You, Molly?\" said Cynthia.\n\n\"Yes--she once before spoke to me,--I suspect she has got some notion\nabout Mr. Preston in her head--\"\n\nCynthia sate down quite suddenly. Molly went on: \"And she spoke\nas if mamma did not look enough after me,--I think she was rather\nprovoking--\"\n\n\"Not rather, but very--very impertinent,\" said Mrs. Gibson, a little\nsoothed by Molly's recognition of her grievance.\n\n\"What could have put it into her head?\" said Cynthia, very quietly,\ntaking up her sewing as she spoke.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said her mother, replying to the question after her\nown fashion. \"I'm sure I don't always approve of Mr. Preston; but\neven if it was him she was thinking about, he's far more agreeable\nthan she is; and I had much rather have him coming to call than an\nold maid like her any day.\"\n\n\"I don't know that it was Mr. Preston she was thinking about,\" said\nMolly. \"It was only a guess. When you were both in London she spoke\nabout him,--I thought she had heard something about you and him,\nCynthia.\" Unseen by her mother Cynthia looked up at Molly, her eyes\nfull of prohibition, her cheeks full of angry colour. Molly stopped\nshort suddenly. After that look she was surprised at the quietness\nwith which Cynthia said, almost immediately,--\n\n\"Well, after all, it is only your fancy that she was alluding to Mr.\nPreston, so perhaps we had better not say any more about him; and as\nfor her advice to mamma to look after you better, Miss Molly, I'll\nstand bail for your good behaviour; for both mamma and I know you're\nthe last person to do any foolish things in that way. And now don't\nlet us talk any more about it. I was coming to tell you that Hannah\nBrand's little boy has been badly burnt, and his sister is downstairs\nasking for old linen.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson was always kind to poor people, and she immediately got\nup and went to her stores to search for the article wanted.\n\nCynthia turned quietly round to Molly.\n\n\"Molly, pray don't ever allude to anything between me and Mr.\nPreston,--not to mamma, nor to any one. Never do! I've a reason for\nit,--don't say anything more about it, ever.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson came back at this moment, and Molly had to stop short\nagain on the brink of Cynthia's confidence; uncertain indeed this\ntime, whether she would have been told anything more, and only sure\nthat she had annoyed Cynthia a good deal.\n\nBut the time was approaching when she would know all.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\nTHE STORM BURSTS.\n\n\nThe autumn drifted away through all its seasons. The golden\ncorn-harvest, the walks through the stubble-fields, and rambles into\nhazel-copses in search of nuts; the stripping of the apple-orchards\nof their ruddy fruit, amid the joyous cries and shouts of watching\nchildren; and the gorgeous tulip-like colouring of the later time had\nnow come on with the shortening days. There was comparative silence\nin the land, excepting for the distant shots, and the whirr of the\npartridges as they rose up from the field.\n\nEver since Miss Browning's unlucky conversation, things had been\najar in the Gibsons' house. Cynthia seemed to keep every one out at\n(mental) arms'-length; and particularly avoided any private talks\nwith Molly. Mrs. Gibson, still cherishing a grudge against Miss\nBrowning for her implied accusation of not looking enough after\nMolly, chose to exercise a most wearying supervision over the poor\ngirl. It was, \"Where have you been, child?\" \"Who did you see?\" \"Who\nwas that letter from?\" \"Why were you so long out when you had only\nto go to so-and-so?\" just as if Molly had really been detected in\ncarrying on some underhand intercourse. She answered every question\nasked of her with the simple truthfulness of perfect innocence;\nbut the inquiries (although she read their motive, and knew that\nthey arose from no especial suspicion of her conduct, but only that\nMrs. Gibson might be able to say that she looked well after her\nstepdaughter) chafed her inexpressibly. Very often she did not go out\nat all, sooner than have to give a plan of her intended proceedings,\nwhen perhaps she had no plan at all,--only thought of wandering out\nat her own sweet will, and of taking pleasure in the bright solemn\nfading of the year. It was a very heavy time for Molly,--zest and\nlife had fled, and left so many of the old delights mere shells of\nseeming. She thought it was that her youth had fled; at nineteen!\nCynthia was no longer the same, somehow: and perhaps Cynthia's change\nwould injure her in the distant Roger's opinion. Her stepmother\nseemed almost kind in comparison with Cynthia's withdrawal of her\nheart; Mrs. Gibson worried her, to be sure, with all these forms of\nwatching over her; but in all her other ways, she, at any rate, was\nthe same. Yet Cynthia herself seemed anxious and care-worn, though\nshe would not speak of her anxieties to Molly. And then the poor girl\nin her goodness would blame herself for feeling Cynthia's change of\nmanner; for as Molly said to herself, \"If it is hard work for me to\nhelp always fretting after Roger, and wondering where he is, and how\nhe is, what must it be for her?\"\n\nOne day Mr. Gibson came in, bright and swift.\n\n\"Molly,\" said he, \"where's Cynthia?\"\n\n\"Gone out to do some errands--\"\n\n\"Well, it's a pity--but never mind. Put on your bonnet and cloak as\nfast as you can. I've had to borrow old Simpson's dog-cart,--there\nwould have been room both for you and Cynthia; but as it is, you must\nwalk back alone. I'll drive you as far on the Barford Road as I can,\nand then you must jump down. I can't take you on to Broadhurst's, I\nmay be kept there for hours.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson was out of the room; out of the house it might be, for\nall Molly cared, now she had her father's leave and command. Her\nbonnet and cloak were on in two minutes, and she was sitting by her\nfather's side, the back seat shut up, and the light weight going\nswiftly and merrily bumping over the stone-paved lanes.\n\n\"Oh, this is charming!\" said Molly, after a toss-up on her seat from\na tremendous bump.\n\n\"For youth, but not for crabbed age,\" said Mr. Gibson. \"My bones are\ngetting rheumatic, and would rather go smoothly over macadamized\nstreets.\"\n\n\"That's treason to this lovely view and this fine pure air, papa.\nOnly I don't believe you.\"\n\n\"Thank you. As you are so complimentary, I think I shall put you down\nat the foot of this hill; we've passed the second mile-stone from\nHollingford.\"\n\n\"Oh, let me just go up to the top! I know we can see the blue range\nof the Malverns from it, and Dorrimer Hall among the woods; the horse\nwill want a minute's rest, and then I will get down without a word.\"\n\nSo she went up to the top of the hill; and there they sate still a\nminute or two, enjoying the view, without much speaking. The woods\nwere golden; the old house of purple-red brick, with its twisted\nchimneys, rose up from among them facing on to green lawns, and a\nplacid lake; beyond again were the Malvern Hills.\n\n\"Now jump down, lassie, and make the best of your way home before it\ngets dark. You'll find the cut over Croston Heath shorter than the\nroad we've come by.\"\n\nTo get to Croston Heath, Molly had to go down a narrow lane\novershadowed by trees, with picturesque old cottages dotted here and\nthere on the steep sandy banks; and then there came a small wood,\nand then there was a brook to be crossed on a plank-bridge, and up\nthe steeper fields on the opposite side were cut steps in the turfy\npath; these ended, she was on Croston Heath, a wide-stretching\ncommon skirted by labourers' dwellings, past which a near road to\nHollingford lay.\n\nThe loneliest part of the road was the first--the lane, the wood,\nthe little bridge, and the clambering through the upland fields. But\nMolly cared little for loneliness. She went along the lane under the\nover-arching elm-branches, from which, here and there, a yellow leaf\ncame floating down upon her very dress; past the last cottage where\na little child had tumbled down the sloping bank, and was publishing\nthe accident with frightened cries. Molly stooped to pick it up, and\ntaking it in her arms in a manner which caused intense surprise to\ntake the place of alarm in its little breast, she carried it up the\nrough flag steps towards the cottage which she supposed to be its\nhome. The mother came running in from the garden behind the house,\nstill holding the late damsons she had been gathering in her apron;\nbut, on seeing her, the little creature held out its arms to go to\nher, and she dropped her damsons all about as she took it, and began\nto soothe it as it cried afresh, interspersing her lulling with\nthanks to Molly. She called her by her name; and on Molly asking the\nwoman how she came to know it, she replied that before her marriage\nshe had been a servant of Mrs. Goodenough, and so was \"bound to\nknow Dr. Gibson's daughter by sight.\" After the exchange of two or\nthree more words, Molly ran down into the lane, and pursued her way,\nstopping here and there to gather a nosegay of such leaves as struck\nher for their brilliant colouring. She entered the wood. As she\nturned a corner in the lonely path, she heard a passionate voice of\ndistress; and in an instant she recognized Cynthia's tones. She stood\nstill and looked around. There were some thick holly-bushes shining\nout dark green in the midst of the amber and scarlet foliage. If\nany one was there, it must be behind these thick bushes. So Molly\nleft the path, and went straight, plunging through the brown tangled\ngrowth of ferns and underwood, and turned the holly bushes. There\nstood Mr. Preston and Cynthia; he holding her hands tight, each\nlooking as if just silenced in some vehement talk by the rustle of\nMolly's footsteps.\n\n\n[Illustration: THERE STOOD MR. PRESTON AND CYNTHIA.]\n\n\nFor an instant no one spoke. Then Cynthia said,--\n\n\"Oh, Molly, Molly, come and judge between us!\"\n\nMr. Preston let go Cynthia's hands slowly, with a look that was more\nof a sneer than a smile; and yet he, too, had been strongly agitated,\nwhatever was the subject in dispute. Molly came forward and took\nCynthia's arm, her eyes steadily fixed on Mr. Preston's face. It was\nfine to see the fearlessness of her perfect innocence. He could not\nbear her look, and said to Cynthia,--\n\n\"The subject of our conversation does not well admit of a third\nperson's presence. As Miss Gibson seems to wish for your company now,\nI must beg you to fix some other time and place where we can finish\nour discussion.\"\n\n\"I will go if Cynthia wishes me,\" said Molly.\n\n\"No, no; stay--I want you to stay--I want you to hear it all--I wish\nI had told you sooner.\"\n\n\"You mean that you regret that she has not been made aware of our\nengagement--that you promised long ago to be my wife. Pray remember\nthat it was you who made me promise secrecy, not I you!\"\n\n\"I don't believe him, Cynthia. Don't, don't cry if you can help it;\nI don't believe him.\"\n\n\"Cynthia,\" said he, suddenly changing his tone to fervid tenderness,\n\"pray, pray do not go on so; you can't think how it distresses me!\"\nHe stepped forward to try and take her hand and soothe her; but she\nshrank away from him, and sobbed the more irrepressibly. She felt\nMolly's presence so much to be a protection that now she dared to\nlet herself go, and to weaken herself by giving way to her emotion.\n\n\"Go away!\" said Molly. \"Don't you see you make her worse?\" But he\ndid not stir; he was looking at Cynthia so intently that he did not\nseem even to hear her. \"Go,\" said Molly, vehemently, \"if it really\ndistresses you to see her cry. Don't you see, it's you who are the\ncause of it?\"\n\n\"I will go if Cynthia tells me,\" said he at length.\n\n\"Oh, Molly, I don't know what to do,\" said Cynthia, taking down her\nhands from her tear-stained face, and appealing to Molly, and sobbing\nworse than ever; in fact, she became hysterical, and though she tried\nto speak coherently, no intelligible words would come.\n\n\"Run to that cottage in the trees, and fetch her a cup of water,\"\nsaid Molly. He hesitated a little.\n\n\"Why don't you go?\" said Molly, impatiently.\n\n\"I have not done speaking to her; you will not leave before I come\nback?\"\n\n\"No. Don't you see she can't move in this state?\"\n\nHe went quickly, if reluctantly.\n\nCynthia was some time before she could check her sobs enough to\nspeak. At length she said,--\"Molly, I do hate him!\"\n\n\"But what did he mean by saying you were engaged to him? Don't cry,\ndear, but tell me; if I can help you I will, but I can't imagine what\nit all really is.\"\n\n\"It's too long a story to tell now, and I'm not strong enough. Look!\nhe's coming back. As soon as I can, let us get home.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said Molly.\n\nHe brought the water, and Cynthia drank, and was restored to\ncalmness.\n\n\"Now,\" said Molly, \"we had better go home as fast as you can manage\nit; it's getting dark quickly.\"\n\nIf she hoped to carry Cynthia off so easily she was mistaken. Mr.\nPreston was resolute on this point. He said--\n\n\"I think since Miss Gibson has made herself acquainted with this\nmuch, we had better let her know the whole truth--that you are\nengaged to marry me as soon as you are twenty; otherwise your being\nhere with me, and by appointment too, may appear strange--even\nequivocal to her.\"\n\n\"As I know that Cynthia is engaged to--another man, you can hardly\nexpect me to believe what you say, Mr. Preston.\"\n\n\"Oh, Molly,\" said Cynthia, trembling all over, but trying to be\ncalm, \"I am not engaged--neither to the person you mean, nor to Mr.\nPreston.\"\n\nMr. Preston forced a smile. \"I think I have some letters that would\nconvince Miss Gibson of the truth of what I have said; and which will\nconvince Mr. Osborne Hamley, if necessary--I conclude it is to him\nshe is alluding.\"\n\n\"I am quite puzzled by you both,\" said Molly. \"The only thing I\ndo know is, that we ought not to be standing here at this time of\nevening, and that Cynthia and I shall go home directly. If you want\nto talk to Miss Kirkpatrick, Mr. Preston, why don't you come to my\nfather's house, and ask to see her openly, and like a gentleman?\"\n\n\"I am perfectly willing,\" said he; \"I shall only be too glad to\nexplain to Mr. Gibson on what terms I stand in relation to her. If I\nhave not done it sooner, it is because I have yielded to her wishes.\"\n\n\"Pray, pray don't. Molly--you don't know all--you don't know anything\nabout it; you mean well and kindly, I know, but you are only making\nmischief. I am quite well enough to walk, do let us go; I will tell\nyou all about it when we are at home.\" She took Molly's arm and tried\nto hasten her away; but Mr. Preston followed, talking as he walked by\ntheir side.\n\n\"I do not know what you will say at home; but can you deny that you\nare my promised wife? Can you deny that it has only been at your\nearnest request that I have kept the engagement secret so long?\" He\nwas unwise--Cynthia stopped, and turned at bay.\n\n\"Since you will have it out,--since I must speak here, I own that\nwhat you say is literally true; that when I was a neglected girl of\nsixteen, you--whom I believed to be a friend, lent me money at my\nneed, and made me give you a promise of marriage.\"\n\n\"Made you!\" said he, laying an emphasis on the first word.\n\nCynthia turned scarlet. \"'Made' is not the right word, I confess.\nI liked you then--you were almost my only friend--and, if it had\nbeen a question of immediate marriage, I daresay I should never have\nobjected. But I know you better now; and you have persecuted me so of\nlate, that I tell you once for all (as I have told you before, till\nI am sick of the very words), that nothing shall ever make me marry\nyou. Nothing! I see there's no chance of escaping exposure and, I\ndaresay, losing my character, and I know losing all the few friends\nI have.\"\n\n\"Never me,\" said Molly, touched by the wailing tone of despair that\nCynthia was falling into.\n\n\"It is hard,\" said Mr. Preston. \"You may believe all the bad things\nyou like about me, Cynthia, but I don't think you can doubt my real,\npassionate, disinterested love for you.\"\n\n\"I do doubt it,\" said Cynthia, breaking out with fresh energy. \"Ah!\nwhen I think of the self-denying affection I have seen--I have\nknown--affection that thought of others before itself--\"\n\nMr. Preston broke in at the pause she made. She was afraid of\nrevealing too much to him.\n\n\"You do not call it love which has been willing to wait for years--to\nbe silent while silence was desired--to suffer jealousy and to bear\nneglect, relying on the solemn promise of a girl of sixteen--for\nsolemn say flimsy, when that girl grows older. Cynthia, I have loved\nyou, and I do love you, and I won't give you up. If you will but keep\nyour word, and marry me, I'll swear I'll make you love me in return.\"\n\n\"Oh, I wish--I wish I'd never borrowed that unlucky money, it was the\nbeginning of it all. Oh, Molly, I have saved and scrimped to repay\nit, and he won't take it now; I thought if I could but repay it, it\nwould set me free.\"\n\n\"You seem to imply you sold yourself for twenty pounds,\" he said.\nThey were nearly on the common now, close to the protection of the\ncottages, in very hearing of their inmates; if neither of the other\ntwo thought of this, Molly did, and resolved in her mind to call in\nat one of them, and ask for the labourer's protection home; at any\nrate his presence must put a stop to this miserable altercation.\n\n\"I did not sell myself; I liked you then. But oh, how I do hate you\nnow!\" cried Cynthia, unable to contain her words.\n\nHe bowed and turned back, vanishing rapidly down the field staircase.\nAt any rate that was a relief. Yet the two girls hastened on, as\nif he was still pursuing them. Once, when Molly said something to\nCynthia, the latter replied--\n\n\"Molly, if you pity me--if you love me--don't say anything more just\nnow. We shall have to look as if nothing had happened when we get\nhome. Come to my room when we go upstairs to bed, and I'll tell you\nall. I know you'll blame me terribly, but I will tell you all.\"\n\nSo Molly did not say another word till they reached home; and then,\ncomparatively at ease, inasmuch as no one perceived how late was\ntheir return to the house, each of the girls went up into their\nseparate rooms, to rest and calm themselves before dressing for the\nnecessary family gathering at dinner. Molly felt as if she were so\nmiserably shaken that she could not have gone down at all, if her own\ninterests only had been at stake. She sate by her dressing-table,\nholding her head in her hands, her candles unlighted, and the room in\nsoft darkness, trying to still her beating heart, and to recall all\nshe had heard, and what would be its bearing on the lives of those\nwhom she loved. Roger. Oh, Roger!--far away in mysterious darkness of\ndistance--loving as he did (ah, that was love! that was the love to\nwhich Cynthia had referred, as worthy of the name!) and the object of\nhis love claimed by another--false to one she must be! How could it\nbe? What would he think and feel if ever he came to know it? It was\nof no use trying to imagine his pain--that could do no good. What lay\nbefore Molly was, to try and extricate Cynthia, if she could help her\nby thought, or advice, or action; not to weaken herself by letting\nher fancy run into pictures of possible, probable suffering.\n\nWhen she went into the drawing-room before dinner, she found Cynthia\nand her mother by themselves. There were candles in the room, but\nthey were not lighted, for the wood-fire blazed merrily if fitfully,\nand they were awaiting Mr. Gibson's return, which might be expected\nat any minute. Cynthia sate in the shade, so it was only by her\nsensitive ear that Molly could judge of her state of composure. Mrs.\nGibson was telling some of her day's adventures--whom she had found\nat home in the calls she had been making; who had been out; and\nthe small pieces of news she had heard. To Molly's quick sympathy\nCynthia's voice sounded languid and weary, but she made all the\nproper replies, and expressed the proper interest at the right\nplaces, and Molly came to the rescue, chiming in, with an effort,\nit is true; but Mrs. Gibson was not one to notice slight shades\nor differences in manner. When Mr. Gibson returned, the relative\npositions of the parties were altered. It was Cynthia now who raised\nherself into liveliness, partly from a consciousness that he would\nhave noticed any depression, and partly because Cynthia was one\nof those natural coquettes, who, from their cradle to their grave,\ninstinctively bring out all their prettiest airs and graces in order\nto stand well with any man, young or old, who may happen to be\npresent. She listened to his remarks and stories with all the sweet\nintentness of happier days, till Molly, silent and wondering, could\nhardly believe that the Cynthia before her was the same girl as she\nwho was sobbing and crying as if her heart would break, but two hours\nbefore. It is true she looked pale and heavy-eyed, but that was the\nonly sign she gave of her past trouble, which yet must be a present\ncare, thought Molly. After dinner, Mr. Gibson went out to his town\npatients; Mrs. Gibson subsided into her arm-chair, holding a sheet of\n_The Times_ before her, behind which she took a quiet and lady-like\ndoze. Cynthia had a book in one hand, with the other she shaded her\neyes from the light. Molly alone could neither read, nor sleep, nor\nwork. She sate in the seat in the bow-window; the blind was not drawn\ndown, for there was no danger of their being overlooked. She gazed\ninto the soft outer darkness, and found herself striving to discern\nthe outlines of objects--the cottage at the end of the garden--the\ngreat beech-tree with the seat round it--the wire arches, up which\nthe summer roses had clambered; each came out faint and dim against\nthe dusky velvet of the atmosphere. Presently tea came, and there was\nthe usual nightly bustle. The table was cleared, Mrs. Gibson roused\nherself, and made the same remark about dear papa that she had done\nat the same hour for weeks past. Cynthia too did not look different\nfrom usual. And yet what a hidden mystery did her calmness hide!\nthought Molly. At length came bed-time, and the customary little\nspeeches. Both Molly and Cynthia went to their own rooms without\nexchanging a word. When Molly was in hers she had forgotten whether\nshe was to go to Cynthia, or Cynthia to come to her. She took off her\ngown and put on her dressing-gown, and stood and waited, and even sat\ndown for a minute or two: but Cynthia did not come, so Molly went and\nknocked at the opposite door, which, to her surprise, she found shut.\nWhen she entered the room Cynthia sate by her dressing-table, just as\nshe had come up from the drawing-room. She had been leaning her head\non her arms, and seemed almost to have forgotten the tryst she had\nmade with Molly, for she looked up as if startled, and her face did\nseem full of worry and distress; in her solitude she made no more\nexertion, but gave way to thoughts of care.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\n\nCYNTHIA'S CONFESSION.\n\n\n\"You said I might come,\" said Molly, \"and that you would tell me\nall.\"\n\n\"You know all, I think,\" said Cynthia, heavily. \"Perhaps you don't\nknow what excuses I have, but at any rate you know what a scrape I am\nin.\"\n\n\"I've been thinking a great deal,\" said Molly, timidly and\ndoubtfully. \"And I can't help fancying if you told papa--\"\n\nBefore she could go on, Cynthia had stood up.\n\n\"No!\" said she. \"That I won't. Unless I'm to leave here at once. And\nyou know I have not another place to go to--without warning, I mean.\nI daresay my uncle would take me in; he's a relation, and would be\nbound to stand by me in whatever disgrace I might be; or perhaps I\nmight get a governess's situation--a pretty governess I should be!\"\n\n\"Pray, please, Cynthia, don't go off into such wild talking. I don't\nbelieve you've done so very wrong. You say you have not, and I\nbelieve you. That horrid man has managed to get you involved in some\nway; but I am sure papa could set it to rights, if you would only\nmake a friend of him, and tell him all--\"\n\n\"No, Molly,\" said Cynthia, \"I can't, and there's an end of it. You\nmay if you like, only let me leave the house first; give me that much\ntime.\"\n\n\"You know I would never tell anything you wished me not to tell,\nCynthia,\" said Molly, deeply hurt.\n\n\"Would you not, darling?\" said Cynthia, taking her hand. \"Will you\npromise me that? quite a sacred promise?--for it would be such a\ncomfort to me to tell you all, now you know so much.\"\n\n\"Yes! I'll promise not to tell. You should not have doubted me,\" said\nMolly, still a little sorrowfully.\n\n\"Very well. I trust to you. I know I may.\"\n\n\"But do think of telling papa, and getting him to help you,\"\npersevered Molly.\n\n\"Never,\" said Cynthia, resolutely, but more quietly than before.\n\"Do you think I forget what he said at the time of that wretched\nMr. Coxe; how severe he was, and how long I was in disgrace, if\nindeed I'm out of it now? I am one of those people, as mamma says\nsometimes--I cannot live with persons who don't think well of me.\nIt may be a weakness, or a sin,--I'm sure I don't know, and I don't\ncare; but I really cannot be happy in the same house with any one who\nknows my faults, and thinks that they are greater than my merits. Now\nyou know your father would do that. I have often told you that he\n(and you too, Molly,) had a higher standard than I had ever known.\nOh, I couldn't bear it; if he were to know he would be so angry with\nme--he would never get over it, and I have so liked him! I do so like\nhim!\"\n\n\"Well, never mind, dear; he shall not know,\" said Molly, for Cynthia\nwas again becoming hysterical,--\"at least, we'll say no more about it\nnow.\"\n\n\"And you'll never say any more--never--promise me,\" said Cynthia,\ntaking her hand eagerly.\n\n\"Never till you give me leave. Now do let me see if I cannot help\nyou. Lie down on the bed, and I'll sit by you, and let us talk it\nover.\"\n\nBut Cynthia sat down again in the chair by the dressing-table.\n\n\"When did it all begin?\" said Molly, after a long pause of silence.\n\n\"Long ago--four or five years. I was such a child to be left all to\nmyself. It was the holidays, and mamma was away visiting, and the\nDonaldsons asked me to go with them to the Worcester Festival. You\ncan't fancy how pleasant it all sounded, especially to me. I had been\nshut up in that great dreary house at Ashcombe, where mamma had her\nschool; it belonged to Lord Cumnor, and Mr. Preston as his agent had\nto see it all painted and papered; but, besides that, he was very\nintimate with us; I believe mamma thought--no, I'm not sure about\nthat, and I have enough blame to lay at her door, to prevent my\ntelling you anything that may be only fancy--\"\n\nThen she paused and sate still for a minute or two, recalling the\npast. Molly was struck by the aged and careworn expression which had\ntaken temporary hold of the brilliant and beautiful face; she could\nsee from that how much Cynthia must have suffered from this hidden\ntrouble of hers.\n\n\"Well! at any rate we were intimate with him, and he came a great\ndeal about the house, and knew as much as any one of mamma's affairs,\nand all the ins and outs of her life. I'm telling you this in order\nthat you may understand how natural it was for me to answer his\nquestions when he came one day and found me, not crying, for you know\nI'm not much given to that, in spite of to-day's exposure of myself;\nbut fretting and fuming because, though mamma had written word I\nmight go with the Donaldsons, she had never said how I was to get any\nmoney for the journey, much less for anything of dress, and I had\noutgrown all my last year's frocks, and as for gloves and boots--in\nshort, I really had hardly clothes decent enough for church--\"\n\n\"Why didn't you write to her and tell her all this?\" said Molly, half\nafraid of appearing to cast blame by her very natural question.\n\n\"I wish I had her letter to show you; you must have seen some of\nmamma's letters, though; don't you know how she always seems to\nleave out just the important point of every fact? In this case she\ndescanted largely on the enjoyment she was having, and the kindness\nshe was receiving, and her wish that I could have been with her, and\nher gladness that I too was going to have some pleasure; but the only\nthing that would have been of real use to me she left out, and that\nwas where she was going to next. She mentioned that she was leaving\nthe house she was stopping at the day after she wrote, and that\nshe should be at home by a certain date; but I got the letter on a\nSaturday, and the festival began the next Tuesday--\"\n\n\"Poor Cynthia!\" said Molly. \"Still, if you had written, your letter\nmight have been forwarded. I don't mean to be hard, only I do so\ndislike the thought of your ever having made a friend of that man.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Cynthia, sighing. \"How easy it is to judge rightly\nafter one sees what evil comes from judging wrongly! I was only a\nyoung girl, hardly more than a child, and he was a friend to us\nthen--excepting mamma, the only friend I knew; the Donaldsons were\nonly kind and good-natured acquaintances.\"\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said Molly, humbly, \"I have been so happy with papa.\nI hardly can understand how different it must have been with you.\"\n\n\"Different! I should think so. The worry about money made me sick of\nmy life. We might not say we were poor, it would have injured the\nschool; but I would have stinted and starved if mamma and I had got\non as happily together as we might have done--as you and Mr. Gibson\ndo. It was not the poverty; it was that she never seemed to care to\nhave me with her. As soon as the holidays came round she was off to\nsome great house or another; and I daresay I was at a very awkward\nage to have me lounging about in the drawing-room when callers came.\nGirls at the age I was then are so terribly keen at scenting out\nmotives, and putting in their disagreeable questions as to the little\ntwistings and twirlings and vanishings of conversation; they've no\ndistinct notion of what are the truths and falsehoods of polite\nlife. At any rate, I was very much in mamma's way, and I felt it. Mr.\nPreston seemed to feel it too for me; and I was very grateful to him\nfor kind words and sympathetic looks--crumbs of kindness which would\nhave dropped under your table unnoticed. So this day, when he came\nto see how the workmen were getting on, he found me in the deserted\nschoolroom, looking at my faded summer bonnet and some old ribbons\nI had been sponging, and half-worn-out gloves--a sort of rag-fair\nspread out on the deal table. I was in a regular passion with only\nlooking at that shabbiness. He said he was so glad to hear I was\ngoing to this festival with the Donaldsons; old Betty, our servant,\nhad told him the news, I believe. But I was so perplexed about money,\nand my vanity was so put out about my shabby dress, that I was in a\npet, and said I shouldn't go. He sate down on the table, and little\nby little he made me tell him all my troubles. I do sometimes think\nhe was very nice in those days. Somehow I never felt as if it was\nwrong or foolish or anything to accept his offer of money at the\ntime. He had twenty pounds in his pocket, he said, and really didn't\nknow what to do with it,--shouldn't want it for months; I could repay\nit, or rather mamma could, when it suited her. She must have known\nI should want money, and most likely thought I should apply to him.\nTwenty pounds wouldn't be too much, I must take it all, and so on.\nI knew--at least I thought I knew--that I should never spend twenty\npounds; but I thought I could give him back what I didn't want, and\nso--well, that was the beginning! It doesn't sound so very wrong,\ndoes it, Molly?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Molly, hesitatingly. She did not wish to make herself into\na hard judge, and yet she did so dislike Mr. Preston. Cynthia went\non,--\n\n\"Well, what with boots and gloves, and a bonnet and a mantle, and a\nwhite muslin gown, which was made for me before I left on Tuesday,\nand a silk gown that followed to the Donaldsons', and my journeys,\nand all, there was very little left of the twenty pounds, especially\nwhen I found I must get a ball-dress in Worcester, for we were all\nto go to the Ball. Mrs. Donaldson gave me my ticket, but she rather\nlooked grave at my idea of going to the Ball in my white muslin,\nwhich I had already worn two evenings at their house. Oh dear! how\npleasant it must be to be rich! You know,\" continued Cynthia, smiling\na very little, \"I can't help being aware that I'm pretty, and that\npeople admire me very much. I found it out first at the Donaldsons'.\nI began to think I did look pretty in my fine new clothes, and I saw\nthat other people thought so too. I was certainly the belle of the\nhouse, and it was very pleasant to feel my power. The last day or\ntwo of that gay week Mr. Preston joined our party. The last time he\nhad seen me was when I was dressed in shabby clothes too small for\nme, half-crying in my solitude, neglected and penniless. At the\nDonaldsons' I was a little queen; and as I said, fine feathers make\nfine birds, and all the people were making much of me; and at that\nBall, which was the first night he came, I had more partners than I\nknew what to do with. I suppose he really did fall in love with me\nthen. I don't think he had done so before. And then I began to feel\nhow awkward it was to be in his debt. I couldn't give myself airs to\nhim as I did to others. Oh! it was so awkward and uncomfortable! But\nI liked him, and felt him as a friend all the time. The last day I\nwas walking in the garden along with the others, and I thought I\nwould tell him how much I had enjoyed myself, and how happy I had\nbeen, all thanks to his twenty pounds (I was beginning to feel like\nCinderella when the clock was striking twelve), and to tell him it\nshould be repaid to him as soon as possible, though I turned sick\nat the thought of telling mamma, and knew enough of our affairs to\nunderstand how very difficult it would be to muster up the money. The\nend of our talk came very soon; for, almost to my terror, he began to\ntalk violent love to me, and to beg me to promise to marry him. I was\nso frightened, that I ran away to the others. But that night I got\na letter from him, apologizing for startling me, renewing his offer,\nhis entreaties for a promise of marriage, to be fulfilled at any date\nI would please to name--in fact, a most urgent love-letter, and in\nit a reference to my unlucky debt, which was to be a debt no longer,\nonly an advance of the money to be hereafter mine if only-- You can\nfancy it all, Molly, better than I can remember it to tell it you.\"\n\n\"And what did you say?\" asked Molly, breathless.\n\n\"I did not answer it at all until another letter came, entreating for\na reply. By that time mamma had come home, and the old daily pressure\nand plaint of poverty had come on. Mary Donaldson wrote to me often,\nsinging the praises of Mr. Preston as enthusiastically as if she had\nbeen bribed to do it. I had seen him a very popular man in their set,\nand I liked him well enough, and felt grateful to him. So I wrote and\ngave him my promise to marry him when I was twenty, but it was to be\na secret till then. And I tried to forget I had ever borrowed money\nof him, but somehow as soon as I felt pledged to him I began to hate\nhim. I couldn't endure his eagerness of greeting if ever he found me\nalone; and mamma began to suspect, I think. I cannot tell you all the\nins and outs; in fact, I didn't understand them at the time, and I\ndon't remember clearly how it all happened now. But I know that Lady\nCuxhaven sent mamma some money to be applied to my education, as\nshe called it; and mamma seemed very much put out and in very low\nspirits, and she and I didn't get on at all together. So, of course,\nI never ventured to name the hateful twenty pounds to her, but went\non trying to think that if I was to marry Mr. Preston, it need never\nbe paid--very mean and wicked, I daresay; but oh, Molly, I've been\npunished for it, for how I abhor that man.\"\n\n\"But why? When did you begin to dislike him? You seem to have taken\nit very passively all this time.\"\n\n\"I don't know. It was growing upon me before I went to that school\nat Boulogne. He made me feel as if I was in his power; and by too\noften reminding me of my engagement to him, he made me critical of\nhis words and ways. There was an insolence in his manner to mamma,\ntoo. Ah! you're thinking that I'm not too respectful a daughter--and\nperhaps not; but I couldn't bear his covert sneers at her faults, and\nI hated his way of showing what he called his 'love' for me. Then,\nafter I had been a _semestre_ at Mdme. Lefevre's, a new English girl\ncame--a cousin of his, who knew but little of me. Now, Molly, you\nmust forget as soon as I've told you what I'm going to say; and she\nused to talk so much and perpetually about her cousin Robert--he was\nthe great man of the family, evidently--and how he was so handsome,\nand every lady of the land in love with him,--a lady of title into\nthe bargain.\"\n\n\"Lady Harriet! I daresay,\" said Molly, indignantly.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Cynthia, wearily. \"I didn't care at the time,\nand I don't care now; for she went on to say there was a very pretty\nwidow too, who made desperate love to him. He had often laughed with\nthem at all her little advances, which she thought he didn't see\nthrough. And, oh! and this was the man I had promised to marry, and\ngone into debt to, and written love-letters to! So now you understand\nit all, Molly.\"\n\n\"No, I don't yet. What did you do on hearing how he had spoken about\nyour mother?\"\n\n\"There was but one thing to do. I wrote and told him I hated him, and\nwould never, never marry him, and would pay him back his money and\nthe interest on it as soon as ever I could.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"And Mdme. Lefevre brought me back my letter,--unopened, I will say;\nand told me that she didn't allow letters to gentlemen to be sent by\nthe pupils of her establishment unless she had previously seen their\ncontents. I told her he was a family friend, the agent who managed\nmamma's affairs--I really could not stick at the truth; but she\nwouldn't let it go; and I had to see her burn it, and to give her my\npromise I wouldn't write again before she would consent not to tell\nmamma. So I had to calm down and wait till I came home.\"\n\n\"But you didn't see him then; at least, not for some time?\"\n\n\"No, but I could write; and I began to try and save up my money to\npay him.\"\n\n\"What did he say to your letter?\"\n\n\"Oh, at first he pretended not to believe I could be in earnest; he\nthought it was only pique, or a temporary offence to be apologized\nfor and covered over with passionate protestations.\"\n\n\"And afterwards?\"\n\n\"He condescended to threats; and, what is worse, then I turned\ncoward. I couldn't bear to have it all known and talked about, and\nmy silly letters shown--oh, such letters! I cannot bear to think of\nthem, beginning, 'My dearest Robert,' to that man--\"\n\n\"But, oh, Cynthia, how could you go and engage yourself to Roger?\"\nasked Molly.\n\n\"Why not?\" said Cynthia, sharply turning round upon her. \"I was\nfree--I am free; it seemed a way of assuring myself that I was quite\nfree; and I did like Roger--it was such a comfort to be brought into\ncontact with people who could be relied upon; and I was not a stock\nor a stone that I could fail to be touched with his tender, unselfish\nlove, so different to Mr. Preston's. I know you don't think me good\nenough for him; and, of course, if all this comes out, he won't think\nme good enough either\" (falling into a plaintive tone very touching\nto hear); \"and sometimes I think I'll give him up, and go off to some\nfresh life amongst strangers; and once or twice I've thought I would\nmarry Mr. Preston out of pure revenge, and have him for ever in my\npower--only I think I should have the worst of it; for he is cruel\nin his very soul--tigerish, with his beautiful striped skin and\nrelentless heart. I have so begged and begged him to let me go\nwithout exposure.\"\n\n\"Never mind the exposure,\" said Molly. \"It will recoil far more on\nhim than harm you.\"\n\nCynthia went a little paler. \"But I said things in those letters\nabout mamma. I was quick-eyed enough to all her faults, and hardly\nunderstood the force of her temptations; and he says he will show\nthose letters to your father, unless I consent to acknowledge our\nengagement.\"\n\n\"He shall not!\" said Molly, rising up in her indignation, and\nstanding before Cynthia almost as resolutely fierce as if she were\nin the very presence of Mr. Preston himself. \"I am not afraid of him.\nHe dare not insult me, or if he does I don't care. I will ask him for\nthose letters, and see if he will dare to refuse me.\"\n\n\"You don't know him,\" said Cynthia, shaking her head. \"He has made\nmany an appointment with me, just as if he would take back the\nmoney--which has been sealed up ready for him this four months; or as\nif he would give me back my letters. Poor, poor Roger! How little he\nthinks of all this! When I want to write words of love to him I pull\nmyself up, for I have written words as affectionate to that other\nman. And if Mr. Preston ever guessed that Roger and I were engaged,\nhe would manage to be revenged on both him and me, by giving us as\nmuch pain as he could with those unlucky letters--written when I was\nnot sixteen, Molly,--only seven of them! They are like a mine under\nmy feet, which may blow up any day; and down will come father and\nmother and all.\" She ended bitterly enough, though her words were so\nlight.\n\n\"How can I get them?\" said Molly, thinking: \"for get them I will.\nWith papa to back me, he dare not refuse.\"\n\n\"Ah! But that's just the thing. He knows I'm afraid of your father's\nhearing of it all, more than of any one else.\"\n\n\"And yet he thinks he loves you!\"\n\n\"It is his way of loving. He says often enough he doesn't care what\nhe does so that he gets me to be his wife; and that after that he is\nsure he can make me love him.\" Cynthia began to cry, out of weariness\nof body and despair of mind. Molly's arms were round her in a minute,\nand she pressed the beautiful head to her bosom, and laid her own\ncheek upon it, and hushed her up with lulling words, just as if\nCynthia were a little child.\n\n\"Oh, it is such a comfort to have told you all!\" murmured Cynthia.\nAnd Molly made reply,--\"I am sure we have right on our side; and that\nmakes me certain he must and shall give up the letters.\"\n\n\"And take the money?\" added Cynthia, lifting her head, and looking\neagerly into Molly's face. \"He must take the money. Oh, Molly, you\ncan never manage it all without its coming out to your father! And I\nwould far rather go out to Russia as a governess. I almost think I\nwould rather--no, not that,\" said she, shuddering away from what she\nwas going to say. \"But he must not know--please, Molly, he must not\nknow. I couldn't bear it. I don't know what I might not do. You'll\npromise me never to tell him,--or mamma?\"\n\n\"I never will. You do not think I would for anything short of\nsaving--\" She was going to have said, \"saving you and Roger from\npain.\" But Cynthia broke in,--\n\n\"For nothing. No reason whatever must make you tell your father. If\nyou fail, you fail, and I will love you for ever for trying; but I\nshall be no worse off than before. Better, indeed; for I shall have\nthe comfort of your sympathy. But promise me not to tell Mr. Gibson.\"\n\n\"I have promised once,\" said Molly, \"but I promise again; so now do\ngo to bed, and try and rest. You are looking as white as a sheet;\nyou'll be ill if you don't get some rest; and it's past two o'clock,\nand you're shivering with cold.\"\n\nSo they wished each other good-night. But when Molly got into her\nroom all her spirit left her; and she threw herself down on her bed,\ndressed as she was, for she had no heart left for anything. If Roger\never heard of it all by any chance, she felt how it would disturb his\nlove for Cynthia. And yet was it right to conceal it from him? She\nmust try and persuade Cynthia to tell it all straight out to him as\nsoon as he returned to England. A full confession on her part would\nwonderfully lessen any pain he might have on first hearing of it.\nShe lost herself in thoughts of Roger--how he would feel, what he\nwould say, how that meeting would come to pass, where he was at that\nvery time, and so on, till she suddenly plucked herself up, and\nrecollected what she herself had offered and promised to do. Now that\nthe first fervour was over, she saw the difficulties clearly; and the\nforemost of all was how she was to manage to have an interview with\nMr. Preston. How had Cynthia managed? and the letters that had passed\nbetween them too? Unwillingly, Molly was compelled to perceive that\nthere must have been a great deal of underhand work going on beneath\nCynthia's apparent openness of behaviour; and still more unwillingly\nshe began to be afraid that she herself might be led into the\npractice. But she would try and walk in a straight path; and if she\ndid wander out of it, it should only be to save pain to those whom\nshe loved.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\n\nMOLLY GIBSON TO THE RESCUE.\n\n\nIt seemed curious enough, after the storms of the night, to meet in\nsmooth tranquillity at breakfast. Cynthia was pale; but she talked as\nquietly as usual about all manner of indifferent things, while Molly\nsate silent, watching and wondering, and becoming convinced that\nCynthia must have gone through a long experience of concealing her\nreal thoughts and secret troubles before she could have been able to\nput on such a semblance of composure. Among the letters that came\nin that morning was one from the London Kirkpatricks; but not from\nHelen, Cynthia's own particular correspondent. Her sister wrote\nto apologize for Helen, who was not well, she said: had had the\ninfluenza, which had left her very weak and poorly.\n\n\"Let her come down here for change of air,\" said Mr. Gibson. \"The\ncountry at this time of the year is better than London, except when\nthe place is surrounded by trees. Now our house is well drained, high\nup, gravel-soil, and I'll undertake to doctor her for nothing.\"\n\n\"It would be charming,\" said Mrs. Gibson, rapidly revolving in\nher mind the changes necessary in her household economy before\nreceiving a young lady accustomed to such a household as Mr.\nKirkpatrick's,--calculating the consequent inconveniences, and\nweighing them against the probable advantages, even while she spoke.\n\"Should not you like it, Cynthia? and Molly too? You then, dear,\nwould become acquainted with one of the girls, and I have no doubt\nyou would be asked back again, which would be so very nice!\"\n\n\"And I shouldn't let her go,\" said Mr. Gibson, who had acquired an\nunfortunate facility of reading his wife's thoughts.\n\n\"Dear Helen!\" went on Mrs. Gibson, \"I should so like to nurse her! We\nwould make your consulting-room into her own private sitting-room,\nmy dear.\"--(It is hardly necessary to say that the scales had been\nweighed down by the inconveniences of having a person behind the\nscenes for several weeks). \"For with an invalid so much depends on\ntranquillity. In the drawing-room, for instance, she might constantly\nbe disturbed by callers; and the dining-room is so--so what shall I\ncall it? so dinnery,--the smell of meals never seems to leave it; it\nwould have been different if dear papa had allowed me to throw out\nthat window--\"\n\n\"Why can't she have the dressing-room for her bedroom, and the little\nroom opening out of the drawing-room for her sitting-room?\" asked Mr.\nGibson.\n\n\"The library,\" for by this name Mrs. Gibson chose to dignify what had\nformerly been called the book-closet--\"why, it would hardly hold a\nsofa, besides the books and the writing-table; and there are draughts\neverywhere. No, my dear, we had better not ask her at all, her own\nhome is comfortable at any rate!\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" said Mr. Gibson, seeing that he was to be worsted, and\nnot caring enough about the matter to show fight. \"Perhaps you're\nright. It's a case of luxury _versus_ fresh air. Some people suffer\nmore from want of the one than from want of the other. You know I\nshall be glad to see her if she likes to come, and take us as we are,\nbut I can't give up the consulting-room. It's a necessity; our daily\nbread!\"\n\n\"I'll write and tell them how kind Mr. Gibson is,\" said his wife in\nhigh contentment, as her husband left the room. \"They'll be just as\nmuch obliged to him as if she had come!\"\n\nWhether it was Helen's illness, or from some other cause, after\nbreakfast Cynthia became very flat and absent, and this lasted all\nday long. Molly understood now why her moods had been so changeable\nfor many months, and was tender and forbearing with her accordingly.\nTowards evening, when the two girls were left alone, Cynthia came and\nstood over Molly, so that her face could not be seen.\n\n\"Molly,\" said she, \"will you do it? Will you do what you said last\nnight? I've been thinking of it all day, and sometimes I believe he\nwould give you back the letters if you asked him; he might fancy--at\nany rate it's worth trying, if you don't very much dislike it.\"\n\nNow it so happened that with every thought she had given to it, Molly\ndisliked the idea of the proposed interview with Mr. Preston more and\nmore; but it was, after all, her own offer, and she neither could nor\nwould draw back from it; it might do good; she did not see how it\ncould possibly do harm. So she gave her consent, and tried to conceal\nher distaste, which grew upon her more and more as Cynthia hastily\narranged the details.\n\n\"You shall meet him in the avenue leading from the park lodge up to\nthe Towers. He can come in one way from the Towers, where he has\noften business--he has pass-keys everywhere--you can go in as we have\noften done by the lodge--you need not go far.\"\n\nIt did strike Molly that Cynthia must have had some experience in\nmaking all these arrangements; and she ventured to ask how he was\nto be informed of all this. Cynthia only reddened and replied, \"Oh!\nnever mind! He will only be too glad to come; you heard him say\nhe wished to discuss the affair more; it is the first time the\nappointment has come from my side. If I can but once be free--oh,\nMolly, I will love you, and be grateful to you all my life!\"\n\nMolly thought of Roger, and that thought prompted her next speech.\n\n\"It must be horrible--I think I'm very brave--but I don't think I\ncould have--could have accepted even Roger, with a half-cancelled\nengagement hanging over me.\" She blushed as she spoke.\n\n\"You forget how I detest Mr. Preston!\" said Cynthia. \"It was that,\nmore than any excess of love for Roger, that made me thankful to be\nat least as securely pledged to some one else. He did not want to\ncall it an engagement, but I did; because it gave me the feeling of\nassurance that I was free from Mr. Preston. And so I am! all but\nthese letters. Oh! if you can but make him take back his abominable\nmoney, and get me my letters! Then we would bury it all in oblivion,\nand he could marry somebody else, and I would marry Roger, and no one\nwould be the wiser. After all, it was only what people call 'youthful\nfolly.' And you may tell Mr. Preston that as soon as he makes my\nletters public, shows them to your father or anything, I'll go away\nfrom Hollingford, and never come back.\"\n\nLoaded with many such messages, which she felt that she should never\ndeliver, not really knowing what she should say, hating the errand,\nnot satisfied with Cynthia's manner of speaking about her relations\nto Roger, oppressed with shame and complicity in conduct which\nappeared to her deceitful, yet willing to bear all and brave all,\nif she could once set Cynthia in a straight path--in a clear space,\nand almost more pitiful to her friend's great distress and possible\ndisgrace, than able to give her that love which involves perfect\nsympathy, Molly set out on her walk towards the appointed place. It\nwas a cloudy, blustering day, and the noise of the blowing wind among\nthe nearly leafless branches of the great trees filled her ears, as\nshe passed through the park-gates and entered the avenue. She walked\nquickly, instinctively wishing to get her blood up, and have no time\nfor thought. But there was a bend in the avenue about a quarter of a\nmile from the lodge; after that bend it was a straight line up to the\ngreat house, now emptied of its inhabitants. Molly did not like going\nquite out of sight of the lodge, and she stood facing it, close by\nthe trunk of one of the trees. Presently she heard a step coming over\nthe grass. It was Mr. Preston. He saw a woman's figure, half-behind\nthe trunk of a tree, and made no doubt that it was Cynthia. But\nwhen he came nearer, almost close, the figure turned round, and,\ninstead of the brilliantly coloured face of Cynthia, he met the pale\nresolved look of Molly. She did not speak to greet him; but though\nhe felt sure from the general aspect of pallor and timidity that\nshe was afraid of him, her steady gray eyes met his with courageous\ninnocence.\n\n\"Is Cynthia unable to come?\" asked he, perceiving that she expected\nhim.\n\n\"I did not know you thought that you should meet her,\" said Molly, a\nlittle surprised. In her simplicity she had believed that Cynthia had\nnamed that it was she, Molly Gibson, who would meet Mr. Preston at a\ngiven time and place; but Cynthia had been too worldly-wise for that,\nand had decoyed him thither by a vaguely worded note, which, while\navoiding actual falsehood, had led him to believe that she herself\nwould give him the meeting.\n\n\"She said she should be here,\" said Mr. Preston, extremely annoyed at\nbeing entrapped, as he now felt that he had been, into an interview\nwith Miss Gibson. Molly hesitated a little before she spoke. He was\ndetermined not to break the silence; as she had intruded herself into\nthe affair, she should find her situation as awkward as possible.\n\n\"At any rate she sent me here to meet you,\" said Molly. \"She has told\nme exactly how matters stand between you and her.\"\n\n\"Has she?\" sneered he. \"She is not always the most open or reliable\nperson in the world!\"\n\nMolly reddened. She perceived the impertinence of the tone; and her\ntemper was none of the coolest. But she mastered herself and gained\ncourage by so doing.\n\n\"You should not speak so of the person you profess to wish to have\nfor your wife. But putting all that aside, you have some letters of\nhers that she wishes to have back again.\"\n\n\"I daresay.\"\n\n\"And that you have no right to keep.\"\n\n\"No legal, or no moral right? which do you mean?\"\n\n\"I do not know; simply you have no right at all, as a gentleman, to\nkeep a girl's letters when she asks for them back again, much less to\nhold them over her as a threat.\"\n\n\"I see you do know all, Miss Gibson,\" said he, changing his manner to\none of more respect. \"At least she has told you her story from her\npoint of view, her side; now you must hear mine. She promised me as\nsolemnly as ever woman--\"\n\n\"She was not a woman, she was only a girl, barely sixteen.\"\n\n\"Old enough to know what she was doing; but I'll call her a girl if\nyou like. She promised me solemnly to be my wife, making the one\nstipulation of secrecy, and a certain period of waiting; she wrote\nme letters repeating this promise, and confidential enough to prove\nthat she considered herself bound to me by such an implied relation.\nI don't give in to humbug--I don't set myself up as a saint--and in\nmost ways I can look after my own interests pretty keenly; you know\nenough of her position as a penniless girl, and at that time, with\nno influential connections to take the place of wealth, and help me\non in the world, it was as sincere and unworldly a passion as ever\nman felt; she must say so herself. I might have married two or three\ngirls with plenty of money; one of them was handsome enough, and not\nat all reluctant.\"\n\nMolly interrupted him: she was chafed at the conceit of his manner.\n\"I beg your pardon, but I do not want to hear accounts of young\nladies whom you might have married; I come here simply on behalf of\nCynthia, who does not like you, and who does not wish to marry you.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I must make her 'like' me, as you call it. She did\n'like' me once, and made promises which she will find it requires the\nconsent of two people to break. I don't despair of making her love me\nas much as ever she did, according to her letters, at least, when we\nare married.\"\n\n\"She will never marry you,\" said Molly, firmly.\n\n\"Then if she ever honours any one else with her preference, he shall\nbe allowed the perusal of her letters to me.\"\n\nMolly almost could have laughed, she was so secure and certain\nthat Roger would never read letters offered to him under these\ncircumstances; but then she thought that he would feel such pain at\nthe whole affair, and at the contact with Mr. Preston, especially if\nhe had not heard of it from Cynthia first, and if she, Molly, could\nsave him pain she would. Before she could settle what to say, Mr.\nPreston spoke again.\n\n\"You said the other day that Cynthia was engaged. May I ask whom to?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Molly, \"you may not. You heard her say it was not an\nengagement. It is not exactly; and if it were a full engagement, do\nyou think, after what you last said, I should tell you to whom? But\nyou may be sure of this, he would never read a line of your letters.\nHe is too-- No! I won't speak of him before you. You could never\nunderstand him.\"\n\n\"It seems to me that this mysterious 'he' is a very fortunate person\nto have such a warm defender in Miss Gibson, to whom he is not at\nall engaged,\" said Mr. Preston, with so disagreeable a look on his\nface that Molly suddenly found herself on the point of bursting into\ntears. But she rallied herself, and worked on--for Cynthia first, and\nfor Roger as well.\n\n\"No honourable man or woman will read your letters, and if any people\ndo read them, they will be so much ashamed of it that they won't dare\nto speak of them. What use can they be of to you?\"\n\n\"They contain Cynthia's reiterated promises of marriage,\" replied he.\n\n\"She says she would rather leave Hollingford for ever, and go out to\nearn her bread, than marry you.\"\n\nHis face fell a little. He looked so bitterly mortified, that Molly\nwas almost sorry for him.\n\n\"Does she say that to you in cold blood? Do you know you are telling\nme very hard truths, Miss Gibson? If they are truths, that is to\nsay,\" he continued, recovering himself a little. \"Young ladies are\nvery fond of the words 'hate' and 'detest.' I've known many who have\napplied them to men whom they were all the time hoping to marry.\"\n\n\"I cannot tell about other people,\" said Molly; \"I only know that\nCynthia does--\" Here she hesitated for a moment; she felt for his\npain, and so she hesitated; but then she brought it out--\"does as\nnearly hate you as anybody like her ever does hate.\"\n\n\"Like her?\" said he, repeating the words almost unconsciously,\nseizing on anything to try and hide his mortification.\n\n\"I mean, I should hate worse,\" said Molly in a low voice.\n\nBut he did not attend much to her answer. He was working the point of\nhis stick into the turf, and his eyes were bent on it.\n\n\"So now would you mind sending her back the letters by me? I do\nassure you that you cannot make her marry you.\"\n\n\"You are very simple, Miss Gibson,\" said he, suddenly lifting up\nhis head. \"I suppose you don't know that there is any other feeling\nthat can be gratified, except love. Have you never heard of revenge?\nCynthia has cajoled me with promises, and little as you or she may\nbelieve me--well, it's no use speaking of that. I don't mean to let\nher go unpunished. You may tell her that. I shall keep the letters,\nand make use of them as I see fit when the occasion arises.\"\n\nMolly was miserably angry with herself for her mismanagement of the\naffair. She had hoped to succeed: she had only made matters worse.\nWhat new argument could she use? Meanwhile he went on, lashing\nhimself up as he thought how the two girls must have talked him over,\nbringing in wounded vanity to add to the rage of disappointed love.\n\n\"Mr. Osborne Hamley may hear of their contents, though he may be too\nhonourable to read them. Nay, even your father may hear whispers;\nand if I remember them rightly, Miss Cynthia Kirkpatrick does not\nalways speak in the most respectful terms of the lady who is now Mrs.\nGibson. There are--\"\n\n\"Stop,\" said Molly. \"I won't hear anything out of these letters,\nwritten, when she was almost without friends, to you, whom she looked\nupon as a friend! But I have thought of what I will do next. I give\nyou fair warning. If I had not been foolish, I should have told my\nfather, but Cynthia made me promise that I would not. So I will tell\nit all, from beginning to end, to Lady Harriet, and ask her to speak\nto her father. I feel sure that she will do it; and I don't think you\nwill dare to refuse Lord Cumnor.\"\n\nHe felt at once that he should not dare; that, clever land-agent as\nhe was, and high up in the earl's favour on that account, yet that\nthe conduct of which he had been guilty in regard to the letters, and\nthe threats which he had held out respecting them, were just what\nno gentleman, no honourable man, no manly man, could put up with in\nany one about him. He knew that much, and he wondered how she, the\ngirl standing before him, had been clever enough to find it out. He\nforgot himself for an instant in admiration of her. There she stood,\nfrightened, yet brave, not letting go her hold on what she meant to\ndo, even when things seemed most against her; and besides, there was\nsomething that struck him most of all perhaps, and which shows the\nkind of man he was--he perceived that Molly was as unconscious that\nhe was a young man, and she a young woman, as if she had been a pure\nangel of heaven. Though he felt that he would have to yield, and give\nup the letters, he was not going to do it at once; and while he was\nthinking what to say, so as still to evade making any concession till\nhe had had time to think over it, he, with his quick senses all about\nhim, heard the trotting of a horse cranching quickly along over the\ngravel of the drive. A moment afterwards, Molly's perception overtook\nhis. He could see the startled look overspread her face; and in an\ninstant she would have run away, but before the first rush was made,\nMr. Preston laid his hand firmly on her arm.\n\n\"Keep quiet. You must be seen. You, at any rate, have done nothing to\nbe ashamed of.\"\n\nAs he spoke, Mr. Sheepshanks came round the bend of the road and was\nclose upon them. Mr. Preston saw, if Molly did not, the sudden look\nof intelligence that dawned upon the shrewd ruddy face of the old\ngentleman--saw, but did not much heed. He went forwards and spoke to\nMr. Sheepshanks, who made a halt right before them.\n\n\"Miss Gibson! your servant. Rather a blustering day for a young lady\nto be out,--and cold, I should say, for standing still too long; eh,\nPreston?\" poking his whip at the latter in a knowing manner.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Preston; \"and I'm afraid I have kept Miss Gibson too\nlong standing.\"\n\nMolly did not know what to say or do; so she only bowed a silent\nfarewell, and turned away to go home, feeling very heavy at heart at\nthe non-success of her undertaking. For she did not know how she had\nconquered, in fact, although Mr. Preston might not as yet acknowledge\nit even to himself. Before she was out of hearing, she heard Mr.\nSheepshanks say,--\n\n\"Sorry to have disturbed your tête-à-tête, Preston,\" but though she\nheard the words, their implied sense did not sink into her mind; she\nwas only feeling how she had gone out glorious and confident, and was\ncoming back to Cynthia defeated.\n\nCynthia was on the watch for her return, and, rushing downstairs,\ndragged Molly into the dining-room.\n\n\"Well, Molly? Oh! I see you haven't got them. After all, I\nnever expected it.\" She sate down, as if she could get over her\ndisappointment better in that position, and Molly stood like a guilty\nperson before her.\n\n\"I am so sorry; I did all I could; we were interrupted at last--Mr.\nSheepshanks rode up.\"\n\n\"Provoking old man! Do you think you should have persuaded him to\ngive up the letters if you had had more time?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I wish Mr. Sheepshanks hadn't come up just then. I\ndidn't like his finding me standing talking to Mr. Preston.\"\n\n\"Oh! I daresay he'd never think anything about it. What did he--Mr.\nPreston--say?\"\n\n\"He seemed to think you were fully engaged to him, and that these\nletters were the only proof he had. I think he loves you in his way.\"\n\n\"His way, indeed!\" said Cynthia, scornfully.\n\n\"The more I think of it, the more I see it would be better for papa\nto speak to him. I did say I would tell it all to Lady Harriet, and\nget Lord Cumnor to make him give up the letters. But it would be very\nawkward.\"\n\n\"Very!\" said Cynthia, gloomily. \"But he would see it was only a\nthreat.\"\n\n\"But I will do it in a moment, if you like. I meant what I said; only\nI feel that papa would manage it best of all, and more privately.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what, Molly--you're bound by a promise, you know, and\ncannot tell Mr. Gibson without breaking your solemn word--but it's\njust this: I'll leave Hollingford and never come back again, if ever\nyour father hears of this affair; there!\" Cynthia stood up now, and\nbegan to fold up Molly's shawl, in her nervous excitement.\n\n\"Oh, Cynthia--Roger!\" was all that Molly said.\n\n\"Yes, I know! you need not remind me of him. But I'm not going\nto live in the house with any one who may be always casting up\nin his mind the things he had heard against me--things--faults,\nperhaps--which sound so much worse than they really are. I was so\nhappy when I first came here; you all liked me, and admired me, and\nthought well of me, and now-- Why, Molly, I can see the difference\nin you already. You carry your thoughts in your face--I have read\nthem there these two days--you've been thinking, 'How Cynthia must\nhave deceived me; keeping up a correspondence all this time--having\nhalf-engagements to two men!' You've been more full of that than\nof pity for me as a girl who has always been obliged to manage for\nherself, without any friend to help her and protect her.\"\n\nMolly was silent. There was a great deal of truth in what Cynthia was\nsaying: and yet a great deal of falsehood. For, through all this long\nforty-eight hours, Molly had loved Cynthia dearly; and had been more\nweighed down by the position the latter was in than Cynthia herself.\nShe also knew--but this was a second thought following on the\nother--that she had suffered much pain in trying to do her best\nin this interview with Mr. Preston. She had been tried beyond her\nstrength: and the great tears welled up into her eyes, and fell\nslowly down her cheeks.\n\n\"Oh! what a brute I am!\" said Cynthia, kissing them away. \"I see--I\nknow it is the truth, and I deserve it--but I need not reproach you.\"\n\n\"You did not reproach me!\" said Molly, trying to smile. \"I have\nthought something of what you said--but I do love you dearly--dearly,\nCynthia--I should have done just the same as you did.\"\n\n\"No, you would not. Your grain is different, somehow.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\n\nCONFIDENCES.\n\n\nAll the rest of that day Molly was depressed and not well. Having\nanything to conceal was so unusual--almost so unprecedented a\ncircumstance with her that it preyed upon her in every way.\n\nIt was a nightmare that she could not shake off; she did so wish to\nforget it all, and yet every little occurrence seemed to remind her\nof it. The next morning's post brought several letters; one from\nRoger for Cynthia, and Molly, letterless herself, looked at Cynthia\nas she read it, with wistful sadness. It appeared to Molly as though\nCynthia should have no satisfaction in these letters, until she had\ntold him what was her exact position with Mr. Preston; yet Cynthia\nwas colouring and dimpling up as she always did at any pretty words\nof praise, or admiration, or love. But Molly's thoughts and Cynthia's\nreading were both interrupted by a little triumphant sound from Mrs.\nGibson, as she pushed a letter she had just received to her husband,\nwith a--\n\n\"There! I must say I expected that!\" Then, turning to Cynthia, she\nexplained--\"It is a letter from uncle Kirkpatrick, love. So kind,\nwishing you to go and stay with them, and help them to cheer up\nHelen; poor Helen! I am afraid she is very far from well. But\nwe could not have had her here, without disturbing dear papa in\nhis consulting-room; and, though I could have relinquished my\ndressing-room--he--well! so I said in my letter how you were\ngrieved--you above all of us, because you are such a friend of\nHelen's, you know--and how you longed to be of use,--as I am sure you\ndo--and so now they want you to go up directly, for Helen has quite\nset her heart upon it.\"\n\nCynthia's eyes sparkled. \"I shall like going,\" said she--\"all but\nleaving you, Molly,\" she added, in a lower tone, as if suddenly\nsmitten with some compunction.\n\n\"Can you be ready to go by the 'Bang-up' to-night?\" said Mr. Gibson;\n\"for, curiously enough, after more than twenty years of quiet\npractice at Hollingford, I am summoned up to-day for the first time\nto a consultation in London to-morrow. I'm afraid Lady Cumnor is\nworse, my dear.\"\n\n\"You don't say so? Poor dear lady! What a shock it is to me! I'm so\nglad I've had some breakfast. I could not have eaten anything.\"\n\n\"Nay, I only say she is worse. With her complaint, being worse may be\nonly a preliminary to being better. Don't take my words for more than\ntheir literal meaning.\"\n\n\"Thank you. How kind and reassuring dear papa always is! About your\ngowns, Cynthia?\"\n\n\"Oh, they're all right, mamma, thank you. I shall be quite ready by\nfour o'clock. Molly, will you come with me and help me to pack? I\nwanted to speak to you, dear,\" said she, as soon as they had gone\nupstairs. \"It is such a relief to get away from a place haunted by\nthat man; but I'm afraid you thought I was glad to leave you; and\nindeed I am not.\" There was a little flavour of \"protesting too much\"\nabout this; but Molly did not perceive it. She only said, \"Indeed\nI did not. I know from my own feelings how you must dislike meeting\na man in public in a different manner from what you have done in\nprivate. I shall try not to see Mr. Preston again for a long, long\ntime, I'm sure. But, Cynthia, you haven't told me one word out of\nRoger's letter. Please, how is he? Has he quite got over his attack\nof fever?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite. He writes in very good spirits. A great deal about birds\nand beasts, as usual, habits of natives, and things of that kind. You\nmay read from there\" (indicating a place in the letter) \"to there, if\nyou can. And I'll tell you what, I'll trust you with it, Molly, while\nI pack; and that shows my sense of your honour--not but what you\nmight read it all, only you'd find the love-making dull; but make a\nlittle account of where he is, and what he is doing, date, and that\nsort of thing, and send it to his father.\"\n\nMolly took the letter down without a word, and began to copy it at\nthe writing-table; often reading over what she was allowed to read;\noften pausing, her cheek on her hand, her eyes on the letter, and\nletting her imagination rove to the writer, and all the scenes in\nwhich she had either seen him herself, or in which her fancy had\npainted him. She was startled from her meditations by Cynthia's\nsudden entrance into the drawing-room, looking the picture of glowing\ndelight. \"No one here? What a blessing! Ah, Miss Molly, you are more\neloquent than you believe yourself. Look here!\" holding up a large\nfull envelope, and then quickly replacing it in her pocket, as if\nshe was afraid of being seen. \"What's the matter, sweet one?\" coming\nup and caressing Molly. \"Is it worrying itself over that letter?\nWhy, don't you see these are my very own horrible letters, that I\nam going to burn directly, that Mr. Preston has had the grace to\nsend me, thanks to you, little Molly--cuishla ma chree, pulse of\nmy heart,--the letters that have been hanging over my head like\nsomebody's sword for these two years?\"\n\n\"Oh, I am so glad!\" said Molly, rousing up a little. \"I never thought\nhe would have sent them. He is better than I believed him. And now it\nis all over. I am so glad! You quite think he means to give up all\nclaim over you by this, don't you, Cynthia?\"\n\n\"He may claim, but I won't be claimed; and he has no proofs now. It\nis the most charming relief; and I owe it all to you, you precious\nlittle lady! Now there's only one thing more to be done; and if you\nwould but do it for me--\" (coaxing and caressing while she asked the\nquestion).\n\n\"Oh, Cynthia, don't ask me; I cannot do any more. You don't know how\nsick I go when I think of yesterday, and Mr. Sheepshanks' look.\"\n\n\"It is only a very little thing. I won't burden your conscience with\ntelling you how I got my letters, but it is not through a person\nI can trust with money; and I must force him to take back his\ntwenty-three pounds odd shillings. I have put it together at the rate\nof five per cent., and it's sealed up. Oh, Molly, I should go off\nwith such a light heart if you would only try to get it safely to\nhim. It's the last thing; there would be no immediate hurry, you\nknow. You might meet him by chance in a shop, in the street, even at\na party--and if you only had it with you in your pocket, there would\nbe nothing so easy.\"\n\nMolly was silent. \"Papa would give it to him. There would be no harm\nin that. I would tell him he must ask no questions as to what it\nwas.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Cynthia, \"have it your own way. I think my way is\nthe best: for if any of this affair comes out-- But you've done a\ngreat deal for me already, and I won't blame you now for declining to\ndo any more!\"\n\n\"I do so dislike having these underhand dealings with him,\" pleaded\nMolly.\n\n\"Underhand! just simply giving him a letter from me! If I left a note\nfor Miss Browning, should you dislike giving it to her?\"\n\n\"You know that's very different. I could do it openly.\"\n\n\"And yet there might be writing in that; and there wouldn't be a\nline with the money. It would only be the winding-up--the honourable,\nhonest winding-up of an affair which has worried me for years. But do\nas you like!\"\n\n\"Give it me!\" said Molly. \"I will try.\"\n\n\"There's a darling! You can but try; and if you can't give it to him\nin private, without getting yourself into a scrape, why, keep it till\nI come back again. He shall have it then, whether he will or no!\"\n\nMolly looked forward to her two days alone with Mrs. Gibson with very\ndifferent anticipations from those with which she had welcomed the\nsimilar intercourse with her father. In the first place, there was no\naccompanying the travellers to the inn from which the coach started;\nleave-taking in the market-place was quite out of the bounds of Mrs.\nGibson's sense of propriety. Besides this, it was a gloomy, rainy\nevening, and candles had to be brought in at an unusually early hour.\nThere would be no break for six hours--no music, no reading; but\nthe two ladies would sit at their worsted work, pattering away at\nsmall-talk, with not even the usual break of dinner; for, to suit\nthe requirements of those who were leaving, they had already dined\nearly. But Mrs. Gibson really meant to make Molly happy, and tried to\nbe an agreeable companion, only Molly was not well, and was uneasy\nabout many apprehended cares and troubles--and at such hours of\nindisposition as she was then passing through, apprehensions take\nthe shape of certainties, lying await in our paths. Molly would have\ngiven a good deal to have shaken off all these feelings, unusual\nenough to her; but the very house and furniture, and rain-blurred\nouter landscape, seemed steeped with unpleasant associations, most of\nthem dating from the last few days.\n\n\"You and I must go on the next journey, I think, my dear,\" said Mrs.\nGibson, almost chiming in with Molly's wish that she could get away\nfrom Hollingford into some new air and life, for a week or two. \"We\nhave been stay-at-homes for a long time, and variety of scene is so\ndesirable for the young! But I think the travellers will be wishing\nthemselves at home by this nice bright fireside. 'There's no place\nlike home,' as the poet says. 'Mid pleasures and palaces although I\nmay roam,' it begins, and it's both very pretty and very true. It's a\ngreat blessing to have such a dear little home as this, is not it,\nMolly?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Molly, rather drearily, having something of the \"toujours\nperdrix\" feeling at the moment. If she could but have gone away with\nher father, just for two days, how pleasant it would have been.\n\n\"To be sure, love, it would be very nice for you and me to go a\nlittle journey all by ourselves. You and I. No one else. If it\nwere not such miserable weather we would have gone off on a little\nimpromptu tour. I've been longing for something of the kind for some\nweeks; but we live such a restricted kind of life here! I declare\nsometimes I get quite sick of the very sight of the chairs and tables\nthat I know so well. And one misses the others too! It seems so flat\nand deserted without them!\"\n\n\"Yes! We are very forlorn to-night; but I think it's partly owing to\nthe weather!\"\n\n\"Nonsense, dear. I can't have you giving in to the silly fancy of\nbeing affected by weather. Poor dear Mr. Kirkpatrick used to say, 'a\ncheerful heart makes its own sunshine.' He would say it to me, in\nhis pretty way, whenever I was a little low--for I am a complete\nbarometer--you may really judge of the state of the weather by my\nspirits, I have always been such a sensitive creature! It is well\nfor Cynthia that she does not inherit it; I don't think her easily\naffected in any way, do you?\"\n\nMolly thought for a minute or two, and then replied--\"No, she\ncertainly is not easily affected--not deeply affected perhaps I\nshould say.\"\n\n\"Many girls, for instance, would have been touched by the admiration\nshe excited--I may say the attentions she received when she was at\nher uncle's last summer.\"\n\n\"At Mr. Kirkpatrick's?\"\n\n\"Yes. There was Mr. Henderson, that young lawyer; that's to say, he\nis studying law, but he has a good private fortune and is likely\nto have more, so he can only be what I call playing at law. Mr.\nHenderson was over head and ears in love with her. It is not my\nfancy, although I grant mothers are partial: both Mr. and Mrs.\nKirkpatrick noticed it; and in one of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's letters,\nshe said that poor Mr. Henderson was going into Switzerland for the\nlong vacation, doubtless to try and forget Cynthia; but she really\nbelieved he would find it only 'dragging at each remove a lengthening\nchain.' I thought it such a refined quotation, and altogether worded\nso prettily. You must know aunt Kirkpatrick some day, Molly, my love;\nshe is what I call a woman of a truly elegant mind.\"\n\n\"I can't help thinking it was a pity that Cynthia did not tell them\nof her engagement.\"\n\n\"It is not an engagement, my dear! How often must I tell you that?\"\n\n\"But what am I to call it?\"\n\n\"I don't see why you need to call it anything. Indeed, I don't\nunderstand what you mean by 'it.' You should always try to express\nyourself intelligibly. It really is one of the first principles\nof the English language. In fact, philosophers might ask what is\nlanguage given us for at all, if it is not that we may make our\nmeaning understood?\"\n\n\"But there is something between Cynthia and Roger; they are more to\neach other than I am to Osborne, for instance. What am I to call it?\"\n\n\"You should not couple your name with that of any unmarried young\nman; it is so difficult to teach you delicacy, child. Perhaps one may\nsay there is a peculiar relation between dear Cynthia and Roger, but\nit is very difficult to characterize it; I have no doubt that is the\nreason she shrinks from speaking about it. For, between ourselves,\nMolly, I really sometimes think it will come to nothing. He is\nso long away, and, privately speaking, Cynthia is not very, very\nconstant. I once knew her very much taken before--that little affair\nis quite gone by; and she was very civil to Mr. Henderson, in her\nway; I fancy she inherits it, for when I was a girl I was beset by\nlovers, and could never find in my heart to shake them off. You have\nnot heard dear papa say anything of the old Squire, or dear Osborne,\nhave you? It seems so long since we have heard or seen anything of\nOsborne. But he must be quite well, I think, or we should have heard\nof it.\"\n\n\"I believe he is quite well. Some one said the other day that they\nhad met him riding--it was Mrs. Goodenough, now I remember--and that\nhe was looking stronger than he had done for years.\"\n\n\"Indeed! I am truly glad to hear it. I always was fond of Osborne;\nand, do you know, I never really took to Roger? I respected him\nand all that, of course; but to compare him with Mr. Henderson! Mr.\nHenderson is so handsome and well-bred, and gets all his gloves from\nHoubigant!\"\n\nIt was true that they had not seen anything of Osborne Hamley for\na long time; but, as it often happens, just after they had been\nspeaking about him he appeared. It was on the day following Mr.\nGibson's departure that Mrs. Gibson received one of the notes, not\nso common now as formerly, from the family in town, asking her to go\nover to the Towers, and find a book, or a manuscript, or something or\nother that Lady Cumnor wanted with all an invalid's impatience. It\nwas just the kind of employment she required for an amusement on a\ngloomy day, and it put her into a good humour immediately. There was\na certain confidential importance about it, and it was a variety, and\nit gave her the pleasant drive in a fly up the noble avenue, and the\nsense of being the temporary mistress of all the grand rooms once so\nfamiliar to her. She asked Molly to accompany her, out of an access\nof kindness, but was not at all sorry when Molly excused herself and\npreferred stopping at home. At eleven o'clock Mrs. Gibson was off,\nall in her Sunday best (to use the servant's expression, which she\nherself would so have contemned), well-dressed in order to impose on\nthe servants at the Towers, for there was no one else to see or to be\nseen by.\n\n\"I shall not be at home until the afternoon, my dear! But I hope you\nwill not find it dull. I don't think you will, for you are something\nlike me, my love--never less alone than when alone, as one of the\ngreat authors has justly expressed it.\"\n\nMolly enjoyed the house to herself fully as much as Mrs. Gibson would\nenjoy having the Towers to herself. She ventured on having her lunch\nbrought upon a tray into the drawing-room, so that she might eat\nher sandwiches while she went on with her book. In the middle, Mr.\nOsborne Hamley was announced. He came in, looking wretchedly ill in\nspite of purblind Mrs. Goodenough's report of his healthy appearance.\n\n\"This call is not on you, Molly,\" said he, after the first greetings\nwere over. \"I was in hopes I might have found your father at home;\nI thought lunch-time was the best hour.\" He had sate down, as if\nthoroughly glad of the rest, and fallen into a languid stooping\nposition, as if it had become so natural to him that no sense of what\nwere considered good manners sufficed to restrain him now.\n\n\"I hope you did not want to see him professionally?\" said Molly,\nwondering if she was wise in alluding to his health, yet urged to it\nby her real anxiety.\n\n\"Yes, I did. I suppose I may help myself to a biscuit and a glass of\nwine? No, don't ring for more. I could not eat it if it was here. But\nI just want a mouthful; this is quite enough, thank you. When will\nyour father be back?\"\n\n\"He was summoned up to London. Lady Cumnor is worse. I fancy there is\nsome operation going on; but I don't know. He will be back to-morrow\nnight.\"\n\n\"Very well. Then I must wait. Perhaps I shall be better by that time.\nI think it's half fancy; but I should like your father to tell me so.\nHe will laugh at me, I daresay; but I don't think I shall mind that.\nHe always is severe on fanciful patients, isn't he, Molly?\"\n\nMolly thought that if he saw Osborne's looks just then he would\nhardly think him fanciful, or be inclined to be severe. But she only\nsaid,--\"Papa enjoys a joke at everything, you know. It is a relief\nafter all the sorrow he sees.\"\n\n\"Very true. There is a great deal of sorrow in the world. I don't\nthink it's a very happy place after all. So Cynthia is gone to\nLondon?\" he added, after a pause. \"I think I should like to have seen\nher again. Poor old Roger! He loves her very dearly, Molly,\" he said.\nMolly hardly knew how to answer him in all this; she was so struck by\nthe change in both voice and manner.\n\n\"Mamma has gone to the Towers,\" she began, at length. \"Lady Cumnor\nwanted several things that mamma only can find. She will be sorry to\nmiss you. We were speaking of you only yesterday, and she said how\nlong it was since we had seen you.\"\n\n\"I think I've grown careless; I've often felt so weary and ill that\nit was all I could do to keep up a brave face before my father.\"\n\n\"Why did you not come and see papa?\" said Molly; \"or write to him?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell. I drifted on, sometimes better, and sometimes worse,\ntill to-day I mustered up pluck, and came to hear what your father\nhas got to tell me: and all for no use it seems.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry. But it is only for two days. He shall go and see\nyou as soon as ever he returns.\"\n\n\"He must not alarm my father, remember, Molly,\" said Osborne, lifting\nhimself by the arms of his chair into an upright position and\nspeaking eagerly for the moment. \"I wish to God Roger was at home!\"\nsaid he, falling back into the old posture.\n\n\"I can't help understanding you,\" said Molly. \"You think yourself\nvery ill; but isn't it that you are tired just now?\" She was not sure\nif she ought to have understood what was passing in his mind; but as\nshe did, she could not help speaking a true reply.\n\n\"Well, sometimes I do think I'm very ill; and then, again, I think\nit's only the moping life sets me fancying and exaggerating.\" He was\nsilent for some time. Then, as if he had taken a sudden resolution,\nhe spoke again. \"You see, there are others depending upon me--upon my\nhealth. You haven't forgotten what you heard that day in the library\nat home? No, I know you haven't. I have seen the thought of it in\nyour eyes often since then. I didn't know you at that time. I think I\ndo now.\"\n\n\"Don't go on talking so fast,\" said Molly. \"Rest. No one will\ninterrupt us; I will go on with my sewing; when you want to say\nanything more I shall be listening.\" For she was alarmed at the\nstrange pallor that had come over his face.\n\n\"Thank you.\" After a time he roused himself, and began to speak very\nquietly, as if on an indifferent matter of fact.\n\n\"The name of my wife is Aimée. Aimée Hamley, of course. She lives\nat Bishopsfield, a village near Winchester. Write it down, but keep\nit to yourself. She is a Frenchwoman, a Roman Catholic, and was a\nservant. She is a thoroughly good woman. I must not say how dear she\nis to me. I dare not. I meant once to have told Cynthia, but she\ndidn't seem quite to consider me as a brother. Perhaps she was shy of\na new relation; but you'll give my love to her, all the same. It is\na relief to think that some one else has my secret; and you are like\none of us, Molly. I can trust you almost as I can trust Roger. I feel\nbetter already, now I feel that some one else knows the whereabouts\nof my wife and child.\"\n\n\"Child!\" said Molly, surprised. But before he could reply, Maria had\nannounced, \"Miss Phoebe Browning.\"\n\n\"Fold up that paper,\" said he, quickly, putting something into her\nhands. \"It is only for yourself.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI.\n\nHOLLINGFORD GOSSIPS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\n\"My dear Molly, why didn't you come and dine with us? I said to\nsister I would come and scold you well. Oh, Mr. Osborne Hamley, is\nthat you?\" and a look of mistaken intelligence at the tête-à-tête\nshe had disturbed came so perceptibly over Miss Phoebe's face that\nMolly caught Osborne's sympathetic eye, and both smiled at the\nnotion.\n\n\"I'm sure I--well! one must sometimes--I see our dinner would have\nbeen--\" Then she recovered herself into a connected sentence. \"We\nonly just heard of Mrs. Gibson's having a fly from the 'George,'\nbecause sister sent our Nancy to pay for a couple of rabbits Tom\nOstler had snared, (I hope we shan't be taken up for poachers, Mr.\nOsborne--snaring doesn't require a licence, I believe?) and she heard\nhe was gone off with the fly to the Towers with your dear mamma; for\nCoxe who drives the fly in general has sprained his ankle. We had\njust finished dinner, but when Nancy said Tom Ostler would not be\nback till night, I said, 'Why, there's that poor dear girl left all\nalone by herself, and her mother such a friend of ours,'--when she\nwas alive, I mean. But I'm sure I'm glad I'm mistaken.\"\n\nOsborne said,--\"I came to speak to Mr. Gibson, not knowing he had\ngone to London, and Miss Gibson kindly gave me some of her lunch.\nI must go now.\"\n\n\"Oh dear! I am so sorry,\" fluttered out Miss Phoebe, \"I disturbed\nyou; but it was with the best intentions. I always was mal-àpropos\nfrom a child.\" But Osborne was gone before she had finished her\napologies. As he left, his eyes met Molly's with a strange look\nof yearning farewell that struck her at the time, and that she\nremembered strongly afterwards. \"Such a nice suitable thing, and I\ncame in the midst, and spoilt it all. I am sure you're very kind, my\ndear, considering--\"\n\n\"Considering what, my dear Miss Phoebe? If you are conjecturing a\nlove affair between Mr. Osborne Hamley and me, you never were more\nmistaken in your life. I think I told you so once before. Please do\nbelieve me.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! I remember. And somehow sister got it into her head it was\nMr. Preston. I recollect.\"\n\n\"One guess is just as wrong as the other,\" said Molly, smiling, and\ntrying to look perfectly indifferent, but going extremely red at the\nmention of Mr. Preston's name. It was very difficult for her to keep\nup any conversation, for her heart was full of Osborne--his changed\nappearance, his melancholy words of foreboding, and his confidences\nabout his wife--French, Catholic, servant. Molly could not help\ntrying to piece these strange facts together by imaginations of her\nown, and found it very hard work to attend to kind Miss Phoebe's\nunceasing patter. She came up to the point, however, when the voice\nceased; and could recall, in a mechanical manner, the echo of the\nlast words, which both from Miss Phoebe's look, and the dying\naccent that lingered in Molly's ear, she perceived to be a question.\nMiss Phoebe was asking her if she would go out with her. She was\ngoing to Grinstead's, the bookseller of Hollingford; who, in addition\nto his regular business, was the agent for the Hollingford Book\nSociety, received their subscriptions, kept their accounts, ordered\ntheir books from London, and, on payment of a small salary, allowed\nthe Society to keep their volumes on shelves in his shop. It was\nthe centre of news, and the club, as it were, of the little town.\nEverybody who pretended to gentility in the place belonged to it. It\nwas a test of gentility, indeed, rather than of education or a love\nof literature. No shopkeeper would have thought of offering himself\nas a member, however great his general intelligence and love of\nreading; while it boasted on its list of subscribers most of the\ncounty families in the neighbourhood, some of whom subscribed to it\nas a sort of duty belonging to their station, without often using\ntheir privilege of reading the books: while there were residents\nin the little town, such as Mrs. Goodenough, who privately thought\nreading a great waste of time, that might be much better employed\nin sewing, and knitting, and pastry-making, but who nevertheless\nbelonged to it as a mark of station, just as these good, motherly\nwomen would have thought it a terrible come-down in the world if they\nhad not had a pretty young servant-maid to fetch them home from the\ntea-parties at night. At any rate, Grinstead's was a very convenient\nplace for a lounge. In that view of the Book Society every one\nagreed.\n\nMolly went upstairs to get ready to accompany Miss Phoebe; and on\nopening one of her drawers she saw Cynthia's envelope, containing\nthe money she owed to Mr. Preston, carefully sealed up like a letter.\nThis was what Molly had so unwillingly promised to deliver--the last\nfinal stroke to the affair. Molly took it up, hating it. For a time\nshe had forgotten it; and now it was here, facing her, and she must\ntry and get rid of it. She put it into her pocket for the chances\nof the walk and the day, and fortune for once seemed to befriend\nher; for, on their entering Grinstead's shop, in which two or three\npeople were now, as always, congregated, making play of examining the\nbooks, or business of writing down the titles of new works in the\norder-book, there was Mr. Preston. He bowed as they came in. He could\nnot help that; but, at the sight of Molly, he looked as ill-tempered\nand out of humour as a man well could do. She was connected in his\nmind with defeat and mortification; and besides, the sight of her\ncalled up what he desired now, above all things, to forget; namely,\nthe deep conviction, received through Molly's simple earnestness,\nof Cynthia's dislike to him. If Miss Phoebe had seen the scowl upon\nhis handsome face, she might have undeceived her sister in her\nsuppositions about him and Molly. But Miss Phoebe, who did not\nconsider it quite maidenly to go and stand close to Mr. Preston, and\nsurvey the shelves of books in such close proximity to a gentleman,\nfound herself an errand at the other end of the shop, and occupied\nherself in buying writing-paper. Molly fingered her valuable letter,\nas it lay in her pocket; did she dare to cross over to Mr. Preston,\nand give it to him, or not? While she was still undecided, shrinking\nalways just at the moment when she thought she had got her courage\nup for action, Miss Phoebe, having finished her purchase, turned\nround, and after looking a little pathetically at Mr. Preston's back,\nsaid to Molly in a whisper--\"I think we'll go to Johnson's now, and\ncome back for the books in a little while.\" So across the street to\nJohnson's they went; but no sooner had they entered the draper's\nshop, than Molly's conscience smote her for her cowardice, and loss\nof a good opportunity. \"I'll be back directly,\" said she, as soon as\nMiss Phoebe was engaged with her purchases; and Molly ran across to\nGrinstead's, without looking either to the right or the left; she had\nbeen watching the door, and she knew that no Mr. Preston had issued\nforth. She ran in; he was at the counter now, talking to Grinstead\nhimself; Molly put the letter into his hand, to his surprise,\nand almost against his will, and turned round to go back to Miss\nPhoebe. At the door of the shop stood Mrs. Goodenough, arrested in\nthe act of entering, staring, with her round eyes, made still rounder\nand more owl-like by spectacles, to see Molly Gibson giving Mr.\nPreston a letter, which he, conscious of being watched, and favouring\nunderhand practices habitually, put quickly into his pocket,\nunopened. Perhaps, if he had had time for reflection he would not\nhave scrupled to put Molly to open shame, by rejecting what she so\neagerly forced upon him.\n\nThere was another long evening to be got through with Mrs. Gibson;\nbut on this occasion there was the pleasant occupation of dinner,\nwhich took up at least an hour; for it was one of Mrs. Gibson's\nfancies--one which Molly chafed against--to have every ceremonial\ngone through in the same stately manner for two as for twenty. So,\nalthough Molly knew full well, and her stepmother knew full well,\nand Maria knew full well, that neither Mrs. Gibson nor Molly touched\ndessert, it was set on the table with as much form as if Cynthia had\nbeen at home, who delighted in almonds and raisins; or Mr. Gibson\nbeen there, who never could resist dates, though he always protested\nagainst \"persons in their station of life having a formal dessert set\nout before them every day.\"\n\nAnd Mrs. Gibson herself apologized, as it were, to Molly to-day,\nin the same words she had often used to Mr. Gibson,--\"It's no\nextravagance, for we need not eat it--I never do. But it looks well,\nand makes Maria understand what is required in the daily life of\nevery family of position.\"\n\nAll through the evening Molly's thoughts wandered far and wide,\nthough she managed to keep up a show of attention to what Mrs.\nGibson was saying. She was thinking of Osborne, and his abrupt,\nhalf-finished confidence, and his ill-looks; she was wondering when\nRoger would come home, and longing for his return, as much (she said\nto herself) for Osborne's sake as for her own. And then she checked\nherself. What had she to do with Roger? Why should she long for his\nreturn? It was Cynthia who was doing this; only somehow he was such\na true friend to Molly, that she could not help thinking of him as a\nstaff and a stay in the troublous times which appeared to lie not far\nahead--this evening. Then Mr. Preston and her little adventure with\nhim came uppermost. How angry he looked! How could Cynthia have\nliked him even enough to get into this abominable scrape, which\nwas, however, all over now! And so she ran on in her fancies and\nimaginations, little dreaming that that very night much talk was\ngoing on not half-a-mile from where she sate sewing, that would prove\nthat the \"scrape\" (as she called it, in her girlish phraseology) was\nnot all over.\n\nScandal sleeps in the summer, comparatively speaking. Its nature is\nthe reverse of that of the dormouse. Warm ambient air, loiterings\nabroad, gardenings, flowers to talk about, and preserves to make,\nsoothed the wicked imp to slumber in the parish of Hollingford in\nsummer-time. But when evenings grew short, and people gathered round\nthe fires, and put their feet in a circle--not on the fenders, that\nwas not allowed--then was the time for confidential conversation!\nOr in the pauses allowed for the tea-trays to circulate among the\ncard-tables--when those who were peaceably inclined tried to stop\nthe warm discussions about \"the odd trick,\" and the rather wearisome\nfeminine way of \"shouldering the crutch, and showing how fields were\nwon\"--small crumbs and scraps of daily news came up to the surface,\nsuch as \"Martindale has raised the price of his best joints a\nhalfpenny in the pound;\" or, \"It's a shame of Sir Harry to order in\nanother book on farriery into the Book Society; Phoebe and I tried\nto read it, but really there is no general interest in it;\" or, \"I\nwonder what Mr. Ashton will do, now Nancy is going to be married!\nWhy, she's been with him these seventeen years! It's a very foolish\nthing for a woman of her age to be thinking of matrimony; and so I\ntold her, when I met her in the market-place this morning!\"\n\nSo said Miss Browning on the night in question; her hand of cards\nlying by her on the puce baize-covered table, while she munched the\nrich pound-cake of a certain Mrs. Dawes, lately come to inhabit\nHollingford.\n\n\"Matrimony's not so bad as you think for, Miss Browning,\" said Mrs.\nGoodenough, standing up for the holy estate into which she had twice\nentered. \"If I'd ha' seen Nancy, I should ha' given her my mind very\ndifferent. It's a great thing to be able to settle what you'll have\nfor dinner, without never a one interfering with you.\"\n\n\"If that's all!\" said Miss Browning, drawing herself up, \"I can do\nthat; and, perhaps, better than a woman who has a husband to please.\"\n\n\"No one can say as I didn't please my husbands--both on 'em, though\nJeremy was tickler in his tastes than poor Harry Beaver. But as I\nused to say to 'em, 'Leave the victual to me; it's better for you\nthan knowing what's to come beforehand. The stomach likes to be\ntaken by surprise.' And neither of 'em ever repented 'em of their\nconfidence. You may take my word for it, beans and bacon will taste\nbetter (and Mr. Ashton's Nancy in her own house) than all the\nsweetbreads and spring chickens she's been a-doing for him this\nseventeen years. But if I chose, I could tell you of something as\nwould interest you all a deal more than old Nancy's marriage to a\nwidower with nine children--only as the young folks themselves is\nmeeting in private, clandestine-like, it's perhaps not for me to tell\ntheir secrets.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't want to hear of clandestine meetings between young\nmen and young women,\" said Miss Browning, throwing up her head. \"It's\ndisgrace enough to the people themselves, I consider, if they enter\non a love affair without the proper sanction of parents. I know\npublic opinion has changed on the subject; but when poor Gratia was\nmarried to Mr. Byerley, he wrote to my father without ever having so\nmuch as paid her a compliment, or said more than the most trivial and\ncommonplace things to her; and my father and mother sent for her into\nmy father's study, and she said she was never so much frightened in\nher life,--and they said it was a very good offer, and Mr. Byerley\nwas a very worthy man, and they hoped she would behave properly to\nhim when he came to supper that night. And after that he was allowed\nto come twice a week till they were married. My mother and I sate at\nour work in the bow-window of the Rectory drawing-room, and Gratia\nand Mr. Byerley at the other end; and my mother always called my\nattention to some flower or plant in the garden when it struck nine,\nfor that was his time for going. Without offence to the present\ncompany, I am rather inclined to look upon matrimony as a weakness to\nwhich some very worthy people are prone; but if they must be married,\nlet them make the best of it, and go through the affair with dignity\nand propriety: or if there are misdoings and clandestine meetings,\nand such things, at any rate, never let me hear about them! I think\nit's you to play, Mrs. Dawes. You'll excuse my frankness on the\nsubject of matrimony! Mrs. Goodenough there can tell you I'm a very\nout-spoken person.\"\n\n\"It's not the out-speaking, it's what you say that goes against me,\nMiss Browning,\" said Mrs. Goodenough, affronted, yet ready to play\nher card as soon as needed. And as for Mrs. Dawes, she was too\nanxious to get into the genteelest of all (Hollingford) society to\nobject to whatever Miss Browning (who, in right of being a deceased\nrector's daughter, rather represented the selectest circle of the\nlittle town) advocated, whether celibacy, marriage, bigamy, or\npolygamy.\n\nSo the remainder of the evening passed over without any further\nreference to the secret Mrs. Goodenough was burning to disclose,\nunless a remark made _àpropos de rien_ by Miss Browning, during the\nsilence of a deal, could be supposed to have connection with the\nprevious conversation. She said suddenly and abruptly,--\n\n\"I don't know what I have done that any man should make me his\nslave.\" If she was referring to any prospect of matrimonial danger\nshe saw opening before her fancy, she might have been comforted. But\nit was a remark of which no one took any notice, all being far too\nmuch engaged in the rubber. Only when Miss Browning took her early\nleave (for Miss Phoebe had a cold, and was an invalid at home),\nMrs. Goodenough burst out with--\n\n\"Well! now I may speak out my mind, and say as how if there was a\nslave between us two, when Goodenough was alive, it wasn't me; and\nI don't think as it was pretty in Miss Browning to give herself such\nairs on her virginity when there was four widows in the room,--who've\nhad six honest men among 'em for husbands. No offence, Miss Airy!\"\naddressing an unfortunate little spinster, who found herself the sole\nrepresentative of celibacy now that Miss Browning was gone. \"I could\ntell her of a girl as she's very fond on, who's on the high road to\nmatrimony; and in as cunning a way as ever I heerd on; going out at\ndusk to meet her sweetheart, just as if she was my Sally, or your\nJenny. And her name is Molly too,--which, as I have often thought,\nshows a low taste in them as first called her so;--she might as\nwell be a scullery-maid at oncest. Not that she's picked up anybody\ncommon; she's looked about her for a handsome fellow, and a smart\nyoung man enough!\"\n\nEvery one around the table looked curious and intent on the\ndisclosures being made, except the hostess, Mrs. Dawes, who smiled\nintelligence with her eyes, and knowingly pursed up her mouth until\nMrs. Goodenough had finished her tale. Then she said demurely,--\n\n\"I suppose you mean Mr. Preston and Miss Gibson?\"\n\n\"Why, who told you?\" said Mrs. Goodenough, turning round upon her\nin surprise. \"You can't say as I did. There's many a Molly in\nHollingford, besides her,--though none, perhaps, in such a genteel\nstation in life. I never named her, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"No. But I know. I could tell my tale too,\" continued Mrs. Dawes.\n\n\"No! could you, really?\" said Mrs. Goodenough, very curious and a\nlittle jealous.\n\n\"Yes. My uncle Sheepshanks came upon them in the Park Avenue,--he\nstartled 'em a good deal, he said; and when he taxed Mr. Preston with\nbeing with his sweetheart, he didn't deny it.\"\n\n\"Well! Now so much has come out, I'll tell you what I know. Only,\nladies, I wouldn't wish to do the girl an unkind turn,--so you must\nkeep what I've got to tell you a secret.\" Of course they promised;\nthat was easy.\n\n\"My Hannah, as married Tom Oakes, and lives in Pearson's Lane,\nwas a-gathering of damsons only a week ago, and Molly Gibson was\na-walking fast down the lane,--quite in a hurry like to meet some\none,--and Hannah's little Anna-Maria fell down, and Molly (who's a\nkind-hearted lass enough) picked her up; so if Hannah had had her\ndoubts before, she had none then.\"\n\n\"But there was no one with her, was there?\" asked one of the ladies,\nanxiously, as Mrs. Goodenough stopped to finish her piece of cake,\njust at this crisis.\n\n\"No: I said she looked as if she was going to meet some one,--and\nby-and-by comes Mr. Preston running out of the wood just beyond\nHannah's, and says he, 'A cup of water, please, good woman, for a\nlady has fainted, or is 'sterical or something.' Now though he didn't\nknow Hannah, Hannah knew him. 'More folks know Tom Fool, than Tom\nFool knows,' asking Mr. Preston's pardon; for he's no fool whatever\nhe be. And I could tell you more,--and what I've seed with my\nown eyes. I seed her give him a letter in Grinstead's shop, only\nyesterday, and he looked as black as thunder at her, for he seed me\nif she didn't.\"\n\n\"It's a very suitable kind of thing,\" said Miss Airy; \"why do they\nmake such a mystery of it?\"\n\n\"Some folks like it,\" said Mrs. Dawes; \"it adds zest to it all, to do\ntheir courting underhand.\"\n\n\"Ay, it's like salt to their victual,\" put in Mrs. Goodenough. \"But I\ndidn't think Molly Gibson was one of that sort, I didn't.\"\n\n\"The Gibsons hold themselves very high?\" cried Mrs. Dawes, more as an\ninquiry than an assertion. \"Mrs. Gibson has called upon me.\"\n\n\"Ay, you're like to be a patient of the doctor's,\" put in Mrs.\nGoodenough.\n\n\"She seemed to me very affable, though she is so intimate with the\nCountess and the family at the Towers; and is quite the lady herself;\ndines late, I've heard, and everything in style.\"\n\n\"Style! very different style to what Bob Gibson, her husband, was\nused to when first he came here,--glad of a mutton-chop in his\nsurgery, for I doubt if he'd a fire anywhere else; we called him Bob\nGibson then, but none on us dare Bob him now; I'd as soon think o'\ncalling him sweep!\"\n\n\"I think it looks very bad for Miss Gibson!\" said one lady, rather\nanxious to bring back the conversation to the more interesting\npresent time. But as soon as Mrs. Goodenough heard this natural\ncomment on the disclosures she had made, she fired round on the\nspeaker:--\n\n\"Not at all bad, and I'll trouble you not to use such a word as that\nabout Molly Gibson, as I've known all her life. It's odd if you will.\nI was odd myself as a girl; I never could abide a plate of gathered\ngooseberries, but I must needs go and skulk behind a bush and gather\n'em for myself. It's some folk's taste, though it mayn't be Miss\nBrowning's, who'd have all the courting done under the nose of the\nfamily. All as ever I said was that I was surprised at it in Molly\nGibson; and that I'd ha' thought it was liker that pretty piece of a\nCynthia as they call her; indeed, at one time I was ready to swear\nas it was her Mr. Preston was after. And now, ladies, I'll wish you\na very good night. I cannot abide waste; and I'll venture for it\nSally's letting the candle in the lantern run all to grease, instead\nof putting it out, as I've told her to do, if ever she's got to wait\nfor me.\"\n\nSo with formal dipping curtseys the ladies separated, but not without\nthanking Mrs. Dawes for the pleasant evening they had had; a piece of\nold-fashioned courtesy always gone through in those days.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII.\n\nSCANDAL AND ITS VICTIMS.\n\n\nWhen Mr. Gibson returned to Hollingford, he found an accumulation of\nbusiness waiting for him, and he was much inclined to complain of the\nconsequences of the two days' comparative holiday, which had resulted\nin over-work for the week to come. He had hardly time to speak to\nhis family, he had so immediately to rush off to pressing cases of\nillness. But Molly managed to arrest him in the hall, standing there\nwith his great coat held out ready for him to put on, but whispering\nas she did so--\n\n\"Papa! Mr. Osborne Hamley was here to see you yesterday. He looks\nvery ill, and he's evidently frightened about himself.\"\n\nMr. Gibson faced about, and looked at her for a moment; but all he\nsaid was--\n\n\"I'll go and see him; don't tell your mother where I'm gone: you've\nnot mentioned this to her, I hope?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Molly, for she had only told Mrs. Gibson of Osborne's\ncall, not of the occasion for it.\n\n\"Don't say anything about it; there's no need. Now I think of it, I\ncan't possibly go to-day,--but I will go.\"\n\nSomething in her father's manner disheartened Molly, who had\npersuaded herself that Osborne's evident illness was partly\n\"nervous,\" by which she meant imaginary. She had dwelt upon his looks\nof enjoyment at Miss Phoebe's perplexity, and thought that no one\nreally believing himself to be in danger could have given the merry\nglances which he had done; but after seeing the seriousness of her\nfather's face, she recurred to the shock she had experienced on first\nseeing Osborne's changed appearance. All this time Mrs. Gibson was\nbusy reading a letter from Cynthia which Mr. Gibson had brought from\nLondon; for every opportunity of private conveyance was seized upon\nwhen postage was so high; and Cynthia had forgotten so many things in\nher hurried packing, that she now sent a list of the clothes which\nshe required. Molly almost wondered that it had not come to her;\nbut she did not understand the sort of reserve that was springing\nup in Cynthia's mind towards her. Cynthia herself struggled with\nthe feeling, and tried to fight against it by calling herself\n\"ungrateful;\" but the truth was, she believed that she no longer held\nher former high place in Molly's estimation and she could not help\nturning away from one who knew things to her discredit. She was fully\naware of Molly's prompt decision and willing action, where action\nwas especially disagreeable, on her behalf; she knew that Molly\nwould never bring up the past errors and difficulties; but still the\nconsciousness that the good, straightforward girl had learnt that\nCynthia had been guilty of so much underhand work cooled her regard,\nand restrained her willingness of intercourse. Reproach herself with\ningratitude as she would, she could not help feeling glad to be\naway from Molly; it was awkward to speak to her as if nothing had\nhappened; it was awkward to write to her about forgotten ribbons\nand laces, when their last conversation had been on such different\nsubjects, and had called out such vehement expressions of feeling.\nSo Mrs. Gibson held the list in her hand, and read out the small\nfragments of news that were intermixed with notices of Cynthia's\nrequirements.\n\n\"Helen cannot be so very ill,\" said Molly at length, \"or Cynthia\nwould not want her pink muslin and daisy wreath.\"\n\n\"I don't see that that follows, I'm sure,\" replied Mrs. Gibson rather\nsharply. \"Helen would never be so selfish as to tie Cynthia to her\nside, however ill she was. Indeed, I should not have felt that it\nwas my duty to let Cynthia go to London at all, if I had thought\nshe was to be perpetually exposed to the depressing atmosphere of\na sick-room. Besides, it must be so good for Helen to have Cynthia\ncoming in with bright pleasant accounts of the parties she has been\nto--even if Cynthia disliked gaiety I should desire her to sacrifice\nherself and go out as much as she could, for Helen's sake. My idea\nof nursing is that one should not be always thinking of one's own\nfeelings and wishes, but doing those things which will most serve to\nbeguile the weary hours of an invalid. But then so few people have\nhad to consider the subject so deeply as I have done!\"\n\nMrs. Gibson here thought fit to sigh before going on with Cynthia's\nletter. As far as Molly could make any sense out of this rather\nincoherent epistle, very incoherently read aloud to her, Cynthia was\nreally pleased, and glad to be of use and comfort to Helen, but at\nthe same time very ready to be easily persuaded into the perpetual\nsmall gaieties which abounded in her uncle's house in London, even at\nthis dead season of the year. Mrs. Gibson came upon Mr. Henderson's\nname once, and then went on with a running \"um-um-um\" to herself,\nwhich sounded very mysterious, but which might as well have been\nomitted, as all that Cynthia really said about him was, \"Mr.\nHenderson's mother has advised my aunt to consult a certain Dr.\nDonaldson, who is said to be very clever in such cases as Helen's,\nbut my uncle is not sufficiently sure of the professional etiquette,\n&c.\" Then there came a very affectionate, carefully worded message to\nMolly,--implying a good deal more than was said of loving gratitude\nfor the trouble she had taken on Cynthia's behalf. And that was all;\nand Molly went away a little depressed; she knew not why.\n\nThe operation on Lady Cumnor had been successfully performed, and in\na few days they hoped to bring her down to the Towers to recruit her\nstrength in the fresh country air. The case was one which interested\nMr. Gibson extremely, and in which his opinion had been proved to\nbe right, in opposition to that of one or two great names in London.\nThe consequence was that he was frequently consulted and referred to\nduring the progress of her recovery; and, as he had much to do in the\nimmediate circle of his Hollingford practice, as well as to write\nthoughtful letters to his medical brethren in London, he found it\ndifficult to spare the three or four hours necessary to go over to\nHamley to see Osborne. He wrote to him, however, begging him to reply\nimmediately and detail his symptoms; and from the answer he received\nhe did not imagine that the case was immediately pressing. Osborne,\ntoo, deprecated his coming over to Hamley for the express purpose\nof seeing him. So the visit was deferred to that \"more convenient\nseason\" which is so often too late.\n\nAll these days the buzzing gossip about Molly's meetings with Mr.\nPreston, her clandestine correspondence, the secret interviews in\nlonely places, had been gathering strength, and assuming the positive\nform of scandal. The simple innocent girl, who walked through the\nquiet streets without a thought of being the object of mysterious\nimplications, became for a time the unconscious black sheep of the\ntown. Servants heard part of what was said in their mistresses'\ndrawing-rooms, and exaggerated the sayings amongst themselves with\nthe coarse strengthening of expression common with uneducated people.\nMr. Preston himself became aware that her name was being coupled with\nhis, though hardly to the extent to which the love of excitement and\ngossip had carried people's speeches; he chuckled over the mistake,\nbut took no pains to correct it. \"It serves her right,\" said he to\nhimself, \"for meddling with other folk's business,\" and he felt\nhimself avenged for the discomfiture which her menace of appealing to\nLady Harriet had caused him, and the mortification he had experienced\nin learning from her plain-speaking lips, how he had been talked\nover by Cynthia and herself, with personal dislike on the one side,\nand evident contempt on the other. Besides, if any denial of Mr.\nPreston's stirred up an examination as to the real truth, more might\ncome out of his baffled endeavours to compel Cynthia to keep to her\nengagement to him than he cared to have known. He was angry with\nhimself for still loving Cynthia; loving her in his own fashion, be\nit understood. He told himself that many a woman of more position and\nwealth would be glad enough to have him; some of them pretty women\ntoo. And he asked himself why he was such a confounded fool as to go\non hankering after a penniless girl, who was as fickle as the wind?\nThe answer was silly enough, logically; but forcible in fact. Cynthia\nwas Cynthia, and not Venus herself could have been her substitute.\nIn this one thing Mr. Preston was more really true than many worthy\nmen; who, seeking to be married, turn with careless facility from the\nunattainable to the attainable, and keep their feelings and fancy\ntolerably loose till they find a woman who consents to be their wife.\nBut no one would ever be to Mr. Preston what Cynthia had been, and\nwas; and yet he could have stabbed her in certain of his moods. So,\nMolly, who had come between him and the object of his desire, was not\nlikely to find favour in his sight, or to obtain friendly actions\nfrom him.\n\nThere came a time--not very distant from the evening at Mrs.\nDawes'--when Molly felt that people looked askance at her. Mrs.\nGoodenough openly pulled her grand-daughter away, when the young girl\nstopped to speak to Molly in the street, and an engagement which\nthe two had made for a long walk together was cut very short by a\nvery trumpery excuse. Mrs. Goodenough explained her conduct in the\nfollowing manner to some of her friends:--\n\n\"You see, I don't think the worse of a girl for meeting her\nsweetheart here and there and everywhere, till she gets talked about;\nbut then when she does--and Molly Gibson's name is in everybody's\nmouth--I think it's only fair to Bessy, who has trusted me with\nAnnabella--not to let her daughter be seen with a lass who has\nmanaged her matters so badly as to set folk talking about her. My\nmaxim is this,--and it's a very good working one, you may depend\non't--women should mind what they're about, and never be talked of;\nand if a woman's talked of, the less her friends have to do with her\ntill the talk has died away, the better. So Annabella is not to have\nanything to do with Molly Gibson, this visit at any rate.\"\n\nFor a good while the Miss Brownings were kept in ignorance of the\nevil tongues that whispered hard words about Molly. Miss Browning\nwas known to \"have a temper,\" and by instinct every one who came in\ncontact with her shrank from irritating that temper by uttering the\nslightest syllable against the smallest of those creatures over whom\nshe spread the ægis of her love. She would and did reproach them\nherself; she used to boast that she never spared them: but no one\nelse might touch them with the slightest slur of a passing word. But\nMiss Phoebe inspired no such terror; the great reason why she did\nnot hear of the gossip against Molly as early as any one, was that,\nalthough she was not the rose, she lived near the rose. Besides, she\nwas of so tender a nature that even thick-skinned Mrs. Goodenough was\nunwilling to say what would give Miss Phoebe pain; and it was the\nnew-comer Mrs. Dawes, who in all ignorance alluded to the town's\ntalk, as to something of which Miss Phoebe must be aware. Then Miss\nPhoebe poured down her questions, although she protested, even with\ntears, her total disbelief in all the answers she received. It was\na small act of heroism on her part to keep all that she then learnt\na secret from her sister Dorothy, as she did for four or five days;\ntill Miss Browning attacked her one evening with the following\nspeech:--\n\n\"Phoebe! either you've some reason for puffing yourself out with\nsighs, or you've not. If you have a reason, it's your duty to tell it\nme directly; and if you haven't a reason, you must break yourself of\na bad habit that is growing upon you.\"\n\n\"Oh, sister! do you think it is really my duty to tell you? it would\nbe such a comfort; but then I thought I ought not; it will distress\nyou so.\"\n\n\"Nonsense. I am so well prepared for misfortune by the frequent\ncontemplation of its possibility that I believe I can receive any ill\nnews with apparent equanimity and real resignation. Besides, when you\nsaid yesterday at breakfast-time that you meant to give up the day\nto making your drawers tidy, I was aware that some misfortune was\nimpending, though of course I could not judge of its magnitude. Is\nthe Highchester Bank broken?\"\n\n\"Oh no, sister!\" said Miss Phoebe, moving to a seat close to her\nsister's on the sofa. \"Have you really been thinking that! I wish I\nhad told you what I heard at the very first, if you've been fancying\nthat!\"\n\n\"Take warning, Phoebe, and learn to have no concealments from me. I\ndid think we must be ruined, from your ways of going on: eating no\nmeat at dinner, and sighing continually. And now what is it?\"\n\n\"I hardly know how to tell you, Dorothy. I really don't.\"\n\nMiss Phoebe began to cry; Miss Browning took hold of her arm, and\ngave her a little sharp shake.\n\n\"Cry as much as you like when you've told me; but don't cry now,\nchild, when you're keeping me on the tenter-hooks.\"\n\n\"Molly Gibson has lost her character, sister. That's it.\"\n\n\"Molly Gibson has done no such thing!\" said Miss Browning\nindignantly. \"How dare you repeat such stories about poor Mary's\nchild? Never let me hear you say such things again.\"\n\n\"I can't help it. Mrs. Dawes told me; and she says it's all over the\ntown. I told her I did not believe a word of it. And I kept it from\nyou; and I think I should have been really ill if I'd kept it to\nmyself any longer. Oh, sister! what are you going to do?\"\n\nFor Miss Browning had risen without speaking a word, and was leaving\nthe room in a stately and determined fashion.\n\n\"I'm going to put on my bonnet and things, and then I shall call upon\nMrs. Dawes, and confront her with her lies.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't call them lies, sister; it's such a strong, ugly word.\nPlease call them tallydiddles, for I don't believe she meant any\nharm. Besides--besides--if they should turn out to be truth? Really,\nsister, that's the weight on my mind; so many things sounded as if\nthey might be true.\"\n\n\"What things?\" said Miss Browning, still standing with judicial\nerectness of position in the middle of the floor.\n\n\"Why--one story was that Molly had given him a letter.\"\n\n\"Who's him? How am I to understand a story told in that silly way?\"\nMiss Browning sat down on the nearest chair, and made up her mind to\nbe patient if she could.\n\n\"Him is Mr. Preston. And that must be true; because I missed her\nfrom my side when I wanted to ask her if she thought blue would look\ngreen by candlelight, as the young man said it would, and she had run\nacross the street, and Mrs. Goodenough was just going into the shop,\njust as she said she was.\"\n\nMiss Browning's distress was overcoming her anger; so she only said,\n\"Phoebe, I think you'll drive me mad. Do tell me what you heard\nfrom Mrs. Dawes in a sensible and coherent manner, for once in your\nlife.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I'm trying with all my might to tell you everything just as\nit happened.\"\n\n\"What did you hear from Mrs. Dawes?\"\n\n\"Why, that Molly and Mr. Preston were keeping company just as if she\nwas a maid-servant and he was a gardener: meeting at all sorts of\nimproper times and places, and fainting away in his arms, and out at\nnight together, and writing to each other, and slipping their letters\ninto each other's hands; and that was what I was talking about,\nsister, for I next door to saw that done once. I saw her with my own\neyes run across the street to Grinstead's, where he was, for we had\njust left him there; with a letter in her hand, too, which was not\nthere when she came back all fluttered and blushing. But I never\nthought anything of it at the time; but now all the town is talking\nabout it, and crying shame, and saying they ought to be married.\"\nMiss Phoebe sank into sobbing again; but was suddenly roused by a\ngood box on her ear. Miss Browning was standing over her almost\ntrembling with passion.\n\n\"Phoebe, if ever I hear you say such things again, I'll turn you\nout of the house that minute.\"\n\n\"I only said what Mrs. Dawes said, and you asked me what it was,\"\nreplied Miss Phoebe, humbly and meekly. \"Dorothy, you should not\nhave done that.\"\n\n\"Never mind whether I should or I shouldn't. That's not the matter\nin hand. What I've got to decide is, how to put a stop to all these\nlies.\"\n\n\"But, Dorothy, they are not all lies--if you will call them so; I'm\nafraid some things are true; though I stuck to their being false when\nMrs. Dawes told me of them.\"\n\n\"If I go to Mrs. Dawes, and she repeats them to me, I shall slap her\nface or box her ears I'm afraid, for I couldn't stand tales being\ntold of poor Mary's daughter, as if they were just a stirring piece\nof news like James Horrocks' pig with two heads,\" said Miss Browning,\nmeditating aloud. \"That would do harm instead of good. Phoebe, I'm\nreally sorry I boxed your ears, only I should do it again if you said\nthe same things.\" Phoebe sate down by her sister, and took hold of\none of her withered hands, and began caressing it, which was her way\nof accepting her sister's expression of regret. \"If I speak to Molly,\nthe child will deny it, if she's half as good-for-nothing as they\nsay; and if she's not, she'll only worry herself to death. No, that\nwon't do. Mrs. Goodenough--but she's a donkey; and if I convinced\nher, she could never convince any one else. No; Mrs. Dawes, who told\nyou, shall tell me, and I'll tie my hands together inside my muff,\nand bind myself over to keep the peace. And when I've heard what is\nto be heard, I'll put the matter into Mr. Gibson's hands. That's what\nI'll do. So it's no use your saying anything against it, Phoebe,\nfor I shan't attend to you.\"\n\nMiss Browning went to Mrs. Dawes' and began civilly enough to make\ninquiries concerning the reports current in Hollingford about Molly\nand Mr. Preston; and Mrs. Dawes fell into the snare, and told all the\nreal and fictitious circumstances of the story in circulation, quite\nunaware of the storm that was gathering and ready to fall upon her\nas soon as she stopped speaking. But she had not the long habit of\nreverence for Miss Browning which would have kept so many Hollingford\nladies from justifying themselves if she found fault. Mrs. Dawes\nstood up for herself and her own veracity, bringing out fresh\nscandal, which she said she did not believe, but that many did; and\nadducing so much evidence as to the truth of what she had said and\ndid believe, that Miss Browning was almost quelled, and sate silent\nand miserable at the end of Mrs. Dawes' justification of herself.\n\n\"Well!\" she said at length, rising up from her chair as she spoke,\n\"I'm very sorry I've lived till this day; it's a blow to me just as\nif I had heard of such goings-on in my own flesh and blood. I suppose\nI ought to apologize to you, Mrs. Dawes, for what I said; but I've\nno heart to do it to-day. I ought not to have spoken as I did; but\nthat's nothing to this affair, you see.\"\n\n\"I hope you do me the justice to perceive that I only repeated what\nI had heard on good authority, Miss Browning,\" said Mrs. Dawes in\nreply.\n\n\"My dear, don't repeat evil on any authority unless you can do some\ngood by speaking about it,\" said Miss Browning, laying her hand on\nMrs. Dawes' shoulder. \"I'm not a good woman, but I know what is good,\nand that advice is. And now I think I can tell you that I beg your\npardon for flying out upon you so; but God knows what pain you were\nputting me to. You'll forgive me, won't you, my dear?\" Mrs. Dawes\nfelt the hand trembling on her shoulder, and saw the real distress of\nMiss Browning's mind, so it was not difficult for her to grant the\nrequested forgiveness. Then Miss Browning went home, and said but a\nfew words to Phoebe, who indeed saw well enough that her sister had\nheard the reports confirmed, and needed no further explanation of\nthe cause of scarcely-tasted dinner, and short replies, and saddened\nlooks. Presently Miss Browning sate down and wrote a short note. Then\nshe rang the bell, and told the little maiden who answered it to\ntake it to Mr. Gibson, and if he was out to see that it was given\nto him as soon as ever he came home. And then she went and put on\nher Sunday cap; and Miss Phoebe knew that her sister had written\nto ask Mr. Gibson to come and be told of the rumours affecting his\ndaughter. Miss Browning was sadly disturbed at the information she\nhad received, and the task that lay before her; she was miserably\nuncomfortable to herself and irritable to Miss Phoebe, and the\nnetting-cotton she was using kept continually snapping and breaking\nfrom the jerks of her nervous hands. When the knock at the door was\nheard,--the well-known doctor's knock,--Miss Browning took off her\nspectacles, and dropped them on the carpet, breaking them as she\ndid so; and then she bade Miss Phoebe leave the room, as if her\npresence had cast the evil-eye, and caused the misfortune. She wanted\nto look natural, and was distressed at forgetting whether she usually\nreceived him sitting or standing.\n\n\"Well!\" said he, coming in cheerfully, and rubbing his cold hands as\nhe went straight to the fire, \"and what is the matter with us? It's\nPhoebe, I suppose? I hope none of those old spasms? But, after all,\na dose or two will set that to rights.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Gibson, I wish it was Phoebe, or me either!\" said Miss\nBrowning, trembling more and more.\n\nHe sate down by her patiently, when he saw her agitation, and took\nher hand in a kind, friendly manner.\n\n\"Don't hurry yourself,--take your time. I daresay it's not so bad as\nyou fancy; but we'll see about it. There's a great deal of help in\nthe world, much as we abuse it.\"\n\n\"Mr. Gibson,\" said she, \"it's your Molly I'm so grieved about. It's\nout now, and God help us both, and the poor child too, for I'm sure\nshe's been led astray, and not gone wrong by her own free will!\"\n\n\"Molly!\" said he, fighting against her words. \"What's my little Molly\nbeen doing or saying?\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Gibson, I don't know how to tell you. I never would have\nnamed it, if I had not been convinced, sorely, sorely against my\nwill.\"\n\n\"At any rate, you can let me hear what you've heard,\" said he,\nputting his elbow on the table, and screening his eyes with his hand.\n\"Not that I'm a bit afraid of anything you can hear about my girl,\"\ncontinued he. \"Only in this little nest of gossip, it's as well to\nknow what people are talking about.\"\n\n\"They say--oh! how shall I tell you?\"\n\n\"Go on, can't you?\" said he, removing his hand from his blazing eyes.\n\"I'm not going to believe it, so don't be afraid!\"\n\n\"But I fear you must believe it. I would not if I could help it.\nShe's been carrying on a clandestine correspondence with Mr.\nPreston!--\"\n\n\"Mr. Preston!\" exclaimed he.\n\n\"And meeting him at all sorts of unseemly places and hours, out of\ndoors,--in the dark,--fainting away in his--his arms, if I must speak\nout. All the town is talking of it.\" Mr. Gibson's hand was over his\neyes again, and he made no sign; so Miss Browning went on, adding\ntouch to touch. \"Mr. Sheepshanks saw them together. They have\nexchanged notes in Grinstead's shop; she ran after him there.\"\n\n\"Be quiet, can't you?\" said Mr. Gibson, taking his hand away, and\nshowing his grim set face. \"I've heard enough. Don't go on. I said\nI shouldn't believe it, and I don't. I suppose I must thank you for\ntelling me; but I can't yet.\"\n\n\"I don't want your thanks,\" said Miss Browning, almost crying. \"I\nthought you ought to know; for though you're married again, I can't\nforget you were dear Mary's husband once upon a time; and Molly's her\nchild.\"\n\n\"I'd rather not speak any more about it just at present,\" said he,\nnot at all replying to Miss Browning's last speech. \"I may not\ncontrol myself as I ought. I only wish I could meet Preston, and\nhorsewhip him within an inch of his life. I wish I'd the doctoring\nof these slanderous gossips. I'd make their tongues lie still for a\nwhile. My little girl! What harm has she done them all, that they\nshould go and foul her fair name?\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mr. Gibson, I'm afraid it's all true. I would not have sent\nfor you if I hadn't examined into it. Do ascertain the truth before\nyou do anything violent, such as horsewhipping or poisoning.\"\n\nWith all the _inconséquence_ of a man in a passion, Mr. Gibson\nlaughed out, \"What have I said about horsewhipping or poisoning?\nDo you think I'd have Molly's name dragged about the streets in\nconnection with any act of violence on my part? Let the report die\naway as it arose. Time will prove its falsehood.\"\n\n\"But I don't think it will, and that's the pity of it,\" said Miss\nBrowning. \"You must do something, but I don't know what.\"\n\n\"I shall go home and ask Molly herself what's the meaning of it all;\nthat's all I shall do. It's too ridiculous--knowing Molly as I do,\nit's perfectly ridiculous.\" He got up and walked about the room\nwith hasty steps, laughing short unnatural laughs from time to time.\n\"Really what will they say next? 'Satan finds some mischief still for\nidle tongues to do.'\"\n\n\"Don't talk of Satan, please, in this house. No one knows what may\nhappen, if he's lightly spoken about,\" pleaded Miss Browning.\n\nHe went on, without noticing her, talking to himself,--\"I've a great\nmind to leave the place;--and what food for scandal that piece\nof folly would give rise to!\" Then he was silent for a time; his\nhands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground, as he continued his\nquarter-deck march. Suddenly he stopped close to Miss Browning's\nchair: \"I'm thoroughly ungrateful to you, for as true a mark of\nfriendship as you've ever shown to me. True or false, it was right\nI should know the wretched scandal that was being circulated; and it\ncouldn't have been pleasant for you to tell it me. Thank you from the\nbottom of my heart.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mr. Gibson, if it was false I would never have named it, but\nlet it die away.\"\n\n\"It's not true, though!\" said he, doggedly, letting drop the hand he\nhad taken in his effusion of gratitude.\n\nShe shook her head. \"I shall always love Molly for her mother's\nsake,\" she said. And it was a great concession from the correct Miss\nBrowning. But her father did not understand it as such.\n\n\"You ought to love her for her own. She has done nothing to disgrace\nherself. I shall go straight home, and probe into the truth.\"\n\n\"As if the poor girl who has been led away into deceit already would\nscruple much at going on in falsehood,\" was Miss Browning's remark on\nthis last speech of Mr. Gibson's; but she had discretion enough not\nto make it until he was well out of hearing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII.\n\nAN INNOCENT CULPRIT.\n\n\nWith his head bent down--as if he were facing some keen-blowing\nwind--and yet there was not a breath of air stirring--Mr. Gibson\nwent swiftly to his own home. He rang at the door-bell; an unusual\nproceeding on his part. Maria opened the door. \"Go and tell Miss\nMolly she's wanted in the dining-room. Don't say who it is that wants\nher.\" There was something in Mr. Gibson's manner that made Maria obey\nhim to the letter, in spite of Molly's surprised question,--\n\n\"Wants me? Who is it, Maria?\"\n\nMr. Gibson went into the dining-room, and shut the door, for an\ninstant's solitude. He went up to the chimney-piece, took hold of it,\nand laid his head on his hands, and tried to still the beating of his\nheart.\n\nThe door opened. He knew that Molly stood there before he heard her\ntone of astonishment.\n\n\"Papa!\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said he, turning round sharply. \"Shut the door. Come here.\"\n\nShe came to him, wondering what was amiss. Her thoughts went to the\nHamleys immediately. \"Is it Osborne?\" she asked, breathless. If Mr.\nGibson had not been too much agitated to judge calmly, he might have\ndeduced comfort from these three words.\n\nBut instead of allowing himself to seek for comfort from collateral\nevidence, he said,--\"Molly, what is this I hear? That you have been\nkeeping up a clandestine intercourse with Mr. Preston--meeting him\nin out-of-the-way places; exchanging letters with him in a stealthy\nway?\"\n\nThough he had professed to disbelieve all this, and did disbelieve it\nat the bottom of his soul, his voice was hard and stern, his face was\nwhite and grim, and his eyes fixed Molly's with the terrible keenness\nof their research. Molly trembled all over, but she did not attempt\nto evade his penetration. If she was silent for a moment, it was\nbecause she was rapidly reviewing her relation with regard to Cynthia\nin the matter. It was but a moment's pause of silence; but it seemed\nlong minutes to one who was craving for a burst of indignant denial.\nHe had taken hold of her two arms just above her wrists, as she had\nadvanced towards him; he was unconscious of this action; but, as his\nimpatience for her words grew upon him, he grasped her more and more\ntightly in his vice-like hands, till she made a little involuntary\nsound of pain. And then he let go; and she looked at her soft bruised\nflesh, with tears gathering fast to her eyes to think that he, her\nfather, should have hurt her so. At the instant it appeared to her\nstranger that he should inflict bodily pain upon his child, than that\nhe should have heard the truth--even in an exaggerated form. With a\nchildish gesture she held out her arm to him; but if she expected\npity, she received none.\n\n\"Pooh!\" said he, as he just glanced at the mark, \"that is\nnothing--nothing. Answer my question. Have you--have you met that man\nin private?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa, I have; but I don't think it was wrong.\"\n\nHe sate down now. \"Wrong!\" he echoed, bitterly. \"Not wrong? Well! I\nmust bear it somehow. Your mother is dead. That's one comfort. It is\ntrue, then, is it? Why, I didn't believe it--not I. I laughed in my\nsleeve at their credulity; and I was the dupe all the time!\"\n\n\"Papa, I cannot tell you all. It is not my secret, or you should\nknow it directly. Indeed, you will be sorry some time--I have never\ndeceived you yet, have I?\" trying to take one of his hands; but he\nkept them tightly in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the pattern of\nthe carpet before him. \"Papa!\" said she, pleading again, \"have I ever\ndeceived you?\"\n\n\"How can I tell? I hear of this from the town's talk. I don't know\nwhat next may come out!\"\n\n\"The town's talk!\" said Molly in dismay. \"What business is it of\ntheirs?\"\n\n\"Every one makes it their business to cast dirt on a girl's name who\nhas disregarded the commonest rules of modesty and propriety.\"\n\n\"Papa, you are very hard. Modesty disregarded! I will tell you\nexactly what I have done. I met Mr. Preston once,--that evening\nwhen you put me down to walk over Croston Heath,--and there was\nanother person with him. I met him a second time--and that time by\nappointment--nobody but our two selves,--in the Towers' Park. That is\nall, papa. You must trust me. I cannot explain more. You must trust\nme indeed.\"\n\nHe could not help relenting at her words; there was such truth in the\ntone in which they were spoken. But he neither spoke nor stirred for\na minute or two. Then he raised his eyes to hers for the first time\nsince she had acknowledged the external truth of what he charged her\nwith. Her face was very white, but it bore the impress of the final\nsincerity of death, when the true expression prevails without the\npoor disguises of time.\n\n\"The letters?\" he said,--but almost as if he were ashamed to question\nthat countenance any further.\n\n\"I gave him one letter,--of which I did not write a word,--which, in\nfact, I believe to have been merely an envelope, without any writing\nwhatever inside. The giving that letter,--the two interviews I have\nnamed,--make all the private intercourse I have had with Mr. Preston.\nOh! papa, what have they been saying that has grieved--shocked you so\nmuch?\"\n\n\"Never mind. As the world goes, what you say you have done, Molly, is\nground enough. You must tell me all. I must be able to refute these\nrumours point by point.\"\n\n\"How are they to be refuted, when you say that the truth which I have\nacknowledged is ground enough for what people are saying?\"\n\n\"You say you were not acting for yourself, but for another. If you\ntell me who the other was,--if you tell me everything out fully,\nI will do my utmost to screen her--for of course I guess it was\nCynthia--while I am exonerating you.\"\n\n\"No, papa!\" said Molly, after some little consideration; \"I have told\nyou all I can tell; all that concerns myself; and I have promised not\nto say one word more.\"\n\n\"Then your character will be impugned. It must be, unless the fullest\nexplanation of these secret meetings is given. I've a great mind to\nforce the whole truth out of Preston himself!\"\n\n\"Papa! once again I beg you to trust me. If you ask Mr. Preston you\nwill very likely hear the whole truth; but that is just what I have\nbeen trying so hard to conceal, for it will only make several people\nvery unhappy if it is known, and the whole affair is over and done\nwith now.\"\n\n\"Not your share in it. Miss Browning sent for me this evening to\ntell me how people were talking about you. She implied that it was a\ncomplete loss of your good name. You don't know, Molly, how slight\na thing may blacken a girl's reputation for life. I'd hard work to\nstand all she said, even though I didn't believe a word of it at the\ntime. And now you've told me that much of it is true.\"\n\n\"But I think you are a brave man, papa. And you believe me, don't\nyou? We shall outlive these rumours, never fear.\"\n\n\"You don't know the power of ill-natured tongues, child,\" said he.\n\n\"Oh, now you've called me 'child' again I don't care for anything.\nDear, dear papa, I'm sure it is best and wisest to take no notice of\nthese speeches. After all, they may not mean them ill-naturedly. I am\nsure Miss Browning would not. By-and-by they'll quite forget how much\nthey made out of so little,--and even if they don't, you would not\nhave me break my solemn word, would you?\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. But I cannot easily forgive the person who, by\npractising on your generosity, led you into this scrape. You are very\nyoung, and look upon these things as merely temporary evils. I have\nmore experience.\"\n\n\"Still, I don't see what I can do now, papa. Perhaps I've been\nfoolish; but what I did, I did of my own self. It was not suggested\nto me. And I'm sure it was not wrong in morals, whatever it might\nbe in judgment. As I said, it's all over now; what I did ended the\naffair, I am thankful to say; and it was with that object I did it.\nIf people choose to talk about me, I must submit; and so must you,\ndear papa.\"\n\n\"Does your mother--does Mrs. Gibson--know anything about it?\" asked\nhe with sudden anxiety.\n\n\"No; not a bit; not a word. Pray don't name it to her. That might\nlead to more mischief than anything else. I have really told you\neverything I am at liberty to tell.\"\n\nIt was a great relief to Mr. Gibson to find that his sudden fear that\nhis wife might have been privy to it all was ill-founded. He had been\nseized by a sudden dread that she, whom he had chosen to marry in\norder to have a protectress and guide for his daughter, had been\ncognizant of this ill-advised adventure with Mr. Preston; nay, more,\nthat she might even have instigated it to save her own child; for\nthat Cynthia was, somehow or other, at the bottom of it all he had\nno doubt whatever. But now, at any rate, Mrs. Gibson had not been\nplaying a treacherous part; that was all the comfort he could extract\nout of Molly's mysterious admission, that much mischief might result\nfrom Mrs. Gibson's knowing anything about these meetings with Mr.\nPreston.\n\n\"Then, what is to be done?\" said he. \"These reports are abroad,--am\nI to do nothing to contradict them? Am I to go about smiling and\ncontent with all this talk about you, passing from one idle gossip to\nanother?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so. I'm very sorry, for I never meant you to have known\nanything about it, and I can see now how it must distress you. But\nsurely when nothing more happens, and nothing comes of what has\nhappened, the wonder and the gossip must die away. I know you believe\nevery word I have said, and that you trust me, papa. Please, for my\nsake, be patient with all this gossip and cackle.\"\n\n\"It will try me hard, Molly,\" said he.\n\n\"For my sake, papa!\"\n\n\"I don't see what else I can do,\" replied he moodily, \"unless I get\nhold of Preston.\"\n\n\"That would be the worst of all. That would make a talk. And, after\nall, perhaps he was not so very much to blame. Yes! he was. But\nhe behaved well to me as far as that goes,\" said she, suddenly\nrecollecting his speech when Mr. Sheepshanks came up in the Towers'\nPark--\"Don't stir, you have done nothing to be ashamed of.\"\n\n\"That's true. A quarrel between men which drags a woman's name into\nnotice is to be avoided at any cost. But sooner or later I must have\nit out with Preston. He shall find it not so pleasant to have placed\nmy daughter in equivocal circumstances.\"\n\n\"He didn't place me. He didn't know I was coming, didn't expect to\nmeet me either time; and would far rather not have taken the letter I\ngave him if he could have helped himself.\"\n\n\"It's all a mystery. I hate to have you mixed up in mysteries.\"\n\n\"I hate to be mixed up. But what can I do? I know of another mystery\nwhich I'm pledged not to speak about. I cannot help myself.\"\n\n\"Well, all I can say is, never be the heroine of a mystery that you\ncan avoid, if you can't help being an accessory. Then, I suppose, I\nmust yield to your wishes and let this scandal wear itself out\nwithout any notice from me?\"\n\n\"What else can you do under the circumstances?\"\n\n\"Ay; what else, indeed? How shall you bear it?\"\n\nFor an instant the quick hot tears sprang into her eyes; to have\neverybody--all her world, thinking evil of her, did seem hard to the\ngirl who had never thought or said an unkind thing of them. But she\nsmiled as she made answer,--\n\n\"It's like tooth-drawing, it will be over some time. It would be much\nworse if I really had been doing wrong.\"\n\n\"Cynthia shall beware--\" he began; but Molly put her hand before his\nmouth.\n\n\"Papa, Cynthia must not be accused, or suspected; you will drive her\nout of your house if you do, she is so proud, and so unprotected,\nexcept by you. And Roger,--for Roger's sake, you will never do or say\nanything to send Cynthia away, when he has trusted us all to take\ncare of her, and love her in his absence. Oh! I think if she were\nreally wicked, and I did not love her at all, I should feel bound to\nwatch over her, he loves her so dearly. And she is really good at\nheart, and I do love her dearly. You must not vex or hurt Cynthia,\npapa,--remember she is dependent upon you!\"\n\n\"I think the world would get on tolerably well, if there were no\nwomen in it. They plague the life out of one. You've made me forget,\namongst you--poor old Job Houghton that I ought to have gone to see\nan hour ago.\"\n\nMolly put up her mouth to be kissed. \"You're not angry with me now,\npapa, are you?\"\n\n\"Get out of my way\" (kissing her all the same). \"If I'm not angry\nwith you, I ought to be; for you've caused a great deal of worry,\nwhich won't be over yet awhile, I can tell you.\"\n\nFor all Molly's bravery at the time of this conversation, it was she\nthat suffered more than her father. He kept out of the way of hearing\ngossip; but she was perpetually thrown into the small society of the\nplace. Mrs. Gibson herself had caught cold, and moreover was not\ntempted by the quiet old-fashioned visiting which was going on just\nabout this time, provoked by the visit of two of Mrs. Dawes' pretty\nunrefined nieces, who laughed, and chattered, and ate, and would fain\nhave flirted with Mr. Ashton, the vicar, could he have been brought\nby any possibility to understand his share in the business. Mr.\nPreston did not accept the invitations to Hollingford tea-drinkings\nwith the same eager gratitude as he had done a year before: or else\nthe shadow which hung over Molly would have extended to him, her\nco-partner in the clandestine meetings which gave such umbrage to\nthe feminine virtue of the town. Molly herself was invited, because\nit would not do to pass any apparent slight on either Mr. or Mrs.\nGibson; but there was a tacit and underhand protest against her being\nreceived on the old terms. Every one was civil to her, but no one was\ncordial; there was a very perceptible film of difference in their\nbehaviour to her from what it was formerly; nothing that had outlines\nand could be defined. But Molly, for all her clear conscience and her\nbrave heart, felt acutely that she was only tolerated, not welcomed.\nShe caught the buzzing whispers of the two Miss Oakes's, who, when\nthey first met the heroine of the prevailing scandal, looked at her\naskance, and criticised her pretensions to good looks, with hardly\nan attempt at under-tones. Molly tried to be thankful that her\nfather was not in the mood for visiting. She was even glad that her\nstepmother was too much of an invalid to come out, when she felt thus\nslighted, and as it were, degraded from her place. Miss Browning\nherself, that true old friend, spoke to her with chilling dignity,\nand much reserve; for she had never heard a word from Mr. Gibson\nsince the evening when she had put herself to so much pain to tell\nhim of the disagreeable rumours affecting his daughter.\n\nOnly Miss Phoebe would seek out Molly with even more than her\nformer tenderness; and this tried Molly's calmness more than all\nthe slights put together. The soft hand, pressing hers under the\ntable,--the continual appeals to her, so as to bring her back into\nthe conversation, touched Molly almost to shedding tears. Sometimes\nthe poor girl wondered to herself whether this change in the\nbehaviour of her acquaintances was not a mere fancy of hers; whether,\nif she had never had that conversation with her father, in which she\nhad borne herself so bravely at the time, she should have discovered\nthe difference in their treatment of her. She never told her father\nhow she felt these perpetual small slights: she had chosen to bear\nthe burden of her own free will; nay, more, she had insisted on\nbeing allowed to do so; and it was not for her to grieve him now by\nshowing that she shrank from the consequences of her own act. So she\nnever even made an excuse for not going into the small gaieties, or\nmingling with the society of Hollingford. Only she suddenly let go\nthe stretch of restraint she was living in, when one evening her\nfather told her that he was really anxious about Mrs. Gibson's cough,\nand should like Molly to give up a party at Mrs. Goodenough's, to\nwhich they were all three invited, but to which Molly alone was\ngoing. Molly's heart leaped up at the thought of stopping at home,\neven though the next moment she had to blame herself for rejoicing at\na reprieve that was purchased by another's suffering. However, the\nremedies prescribed by her husband did Mrs. Gibson good; and she was\nparticularly grateful and caressing to Molly.\n\n\"Really, dear!\" said she, stroking Molly's head, \"I think your hair\nis getting softer, and losing that disagreeable crisp curly feeling.\"\n\nThen Molly knew that her stepmother was in high good-humour; the\nsmoothness or curliness of her hair was a sure test of the favour in\nwhich Mrs. Gibson held her at the moment.\n\n\"I am so sorry to be the cause of detaining you from this little\nparty, but dear papa is so over-anxious about me. I have always been\na kind of pet with gentlemen, and poor Mr. Kirkpatrick never knew how\nto make enough of me. But I think Mr. Gibson is even more foolishly\nfond: his last words were, 'Take care of yourself, Hyacinth;' and\nthen he came back again to say, 'If you don't attend to my directions\nI won't answer for the consequences.' I shook my forefinger at him,\nand said, 'Don't be so anxious, you silly man.'\"\n\n\"I hope we have done everything he told us to do,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Oh yes! I feel so much better. Do you know, late as it is, I think\nyou might go to Mrs. Goodenough's yet? Maria could take you, and I\nshould like to see you dressed; when one has been wearing dull warm\ngowns for a week or two one gets quite a craving for bright colours,\nand evening dress. So go and get ready, dear, and then perhaps you'll\nbring me back some news, for really, shut up as I have been with only\npapa and you for the last fortnight, I've got quite moped and dismal,\nand I can't bear to keep young people from the gaieties suitable to\ntheir age.\"\n\n\"Oh, pray, mamma! I had so much rather not go!\"\n\n\"Very well! very well! Only I think it is rather selfish of you, when\nyou see I am so willing to make the sacrifice for your sake.\"\n\n\"But you say it is a sacrifice to you, and I don't want to go.\"\n\n\"Very well; did I not say you might stop at home? only pray don't\nchop logic; nothing is so fatiguing to a sick person.\"\n\nThen they were silent for some time. Mrs. Gibson broke the silence by\nsaying, in a languid voice--\n\n\"Can't you think of anything amusing to say, Molly?\"\n\nMolly pumped up from the depths of her mind a few little trivialities\nwhich she had nearly forgotten, but she felt that they were anything\nbut amusing, and so Mrs. Gibson seemed to feel them; for presently\nshe said--\n\n\"I wish Cynthia was at home.\" And Molly felt it as a reproach to her\nown dulness.\n\n\"Shall I write to her and ask her to come back?\"\n\n\"Well, I'm not sure; I wish I knew a great many things. You've not\nheard anything of poor dear Osborne Hamley lately, have you?\"\n\nRemembering her father's charge not to speak of Osborne's health,\nMolly made no reply, nor was any needed, for Mrs. Gibson went on\nthinking aloud--\n\n\"You see, if Mr. Henderson has been as attentive as he was in the\nspring--and the chances about Roger--I shall be really grieved if\nanything happens to that young man, uncouth as he is, but it must be\nowned that Africa is not merely an unhealthy--it is a savage--and\neven in some parts a cannibal country. I often think of all I've\nread of it in geography books, as I lie awake at night, and if Mr.\nHenderson is really becoming attached! The future is hidden from us\nby infinite wisdom, Molly, or else I should like to know it; one\nwould calculate one's behaviour at the present time so much better if\none only knew what events were to come. But I think, on the whole, we\nhad better not alarm Cynthia. If we had only known in time we might\nhave planned for her to have come down with Lord Cumnor and my lady.\"\n\n\"Are they coming? Is Lady Cumnor well enough to travel?\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure; or else I should not have considered whether or no\nCynthia could have come down with them. It would have sounded very\nwell--more than respectable, and would have given her a position\namong that lawyer set in London.\"\n\n\"Then Lady Cumnor is better?\"\n\n\"To be sure. I should have thought papa would have mentioned it to\nyou; but, to be sure, he is always so scrupulously careful not to\nspeak about his patients. Quite right too--quite right and delicate.\nWhy, he hardly ever tells me how they are going on. Yes! the Earl and\nthe Countess, and Lady Harriet and Lord and Lady Cuxhaven, and Lady\nAgnes; and I've ordered a new winter bonnet and a black satin cloak.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX.\n\nMOLLY GIBSON FINDS A CHAMPION.\n\n\nLady Cumnor had so far recovered from the violence of her attack, and\nfrom the consequent operation, as to be able to be removed to the\nTowers for change of air; and accordingly she was brought thither\nby her whole family with all the pomp and state becoming an invalid\npeeress. There was every probability that \"the family\" would make a\nlonger residence at the Towers than they had done for several years,\nduring which time they had been wanderers hither and thither in\nsearch of health. Somehow, after all, it was very pleasant and\nrestful to come to the old ancestral home, and every member of the\nfamily enjoyed it in his or her own way; Lord Cumnor most especially.\nHis talent for gossip and his love of small details had scarcely\nfair play in the hurry of a London life, and were much nipped in the\nbud during his Continental sojournings, as he neither spoke French\nfluently, nor understood it easily when spoken. Besides, he was a\ngreat proprietor, and liked to know how his land was going on; how\nhis tenants were faring in the world. He liked to hear of their\nbirths, marriages, and deaths, and had something of a royal memory\nfor faces. In short, if ever a peer was an old woman, Lord Cumnor\nwas that peer; but he was a very good-natured old woman, and rode\nabout on his stout old cob with his pockets full of halfpence for\nthe children, and little packets of snuff for the old people. Like\nan old woman, too, he enjoyed an afternoon cup of tea in his wife's\nsitting-room, and over his gossip's beverage he would repeat all that\nhe had learnt in the day. Lady Cumnor was exactly in that state of\nconvalescence when such talk as her lord's was extremely agreeable\nto her, but she had contemned the habit of listening to gossip so\nseverely all her life, that she thought it due to consistency to\nlisten first, and enter a supercilious protest afterwards. It had,\nhowever, come to be a family habit for all of them to gather together\nin Lady Cumnor's room on their return from their daily walks, or\ndrives, or rides, and over the fire, sipping their tea at her early\nmeal, to recount the morsels of local intelligence they had heard\nduring the morning. When they had said all that they had to say (and\nnot before), they had always to listen to a short homily from her\nladyship on the well-worn texts,--the poorness of conversation about\npersons,--the probable falsehood of all they had heard, and the\ndegradation of character implied by its repetition. On one of these\nNovember evenings they were all assembled in Lady Cumnor's room.\nShe was lying,--all draped in white, and covered up with an Indian\nshawl,--on a sofa near the fire. Lady Harriet sate on the rug, close\nbefore the wood-fire, picking up fallen embers with a pair of dwarf\ntongs, and piling them on the red and odorous heap in the centre of\nthe hearth. Lady Cuxhaven, notable from girlhood, was using the blind\nman's holiday to net fruit-nets for the walls at Cuxhaven Park. Lady\nCumnor's woman was trying to see to pour out tea by the light of one\nsmall wax-candle in the background (for Lady Cumnor could not bear\nmuch light to her weakened eyes); and the great leafless branches of\nthe trees outside the house kept sweeping against the windows, moved\nby the wind that was gathering.\n\nIt was always Lady Cumnor's habit to snub those she loved best. Her\nhusband was perpetually snubbed by her, yet she missed him now that\nhe was later than usual, and professed not to want her tea; but they\nall knew that it was only because he was not there to hand it to her,\nand be found fault with for his invariable stupidity in forgetting\nthat she liked to put sugar in before she took any cream. At length\nhe burst in:--\n\n\"I beg your pardon, my lady,--I'm later than I should have been,\nI know. Why! haven't you had your tea yet?\" he exclaimed, bustling\nabout to get the cup for his wife.\n\n\"You know I never take cream before I've sweetened it,\" said she,\nwith even more emphasis on the \"never\" than usual.\n\n\"Oh, dear! What a simpleton I am! I think I might have remembered it\nby this time. You see I met old Sheepshanks, and that's the reason of\nit.\"\n\n\"Of your handing me the cream before the sugar?\" asked his wife. It\nwas one of her grim jokes.\n\n\"No, no! ha, ha! You're better this evening, I think, my dear. But,\nas I was saying, Sheepshanks is such an eternal talker, there's no\ngetting away from him, and I had no idea it was so late!\"\n\n\"Well, I think the least you can do is to tell us something of Mr.\nSheepshanks' conversation now you have torn yourself away from him.\"\n\n\"Conversation! did I call it conversation? I don't think I said much.\nI listened. He really has always a great deal to say. More than\nPreston, for instance. And, by the way, he was telling me something\nabout Preston;--old Sheepshanks thinks he'll be married before\nlong,--he says there's a great deal of gossip going on about him\nand Gibson's daughter. They've been caught meeting in the park, and\ncorresponding, and all that kind of thing that is likely to end in a\nmarriage.\"\n\n\"I shall be very sorry,\" said Lady Harriet. \"I always liked that\ngirl; and I can't bear papa's model land-agent.\"\n\n\"I daresay it's not true,\" said Lady Cumnor, in a very audible aside\nto Lady Harriet. \"Papa picks up stories one day to contradict them\nthe next.\"\n\n\"Ah, but this did sound like truth. Sheepshanks said all the old\nladies in the town had got hold of it, and were making a great\nscandal out of it.\"\n\n\"I don't think it does sound quite a nice story. I wonder what Clare\ncould be doing to allow such goings on,\" said Lady Cuxhaven.\n\n\"I think it is much more likely that Clare's own daughter--that\npretty pawky Miss Kirkpatrick--is the real heroine of this story,\"\nsaid Lady Harriet. \"She always looks like a heroine of genteel\ncomedy; and those young ladies were capable of a good deal of\ninnocent intriguing, if I remember rightly. Now little Molly Gibson\nhas a certain _gaucherie_ about her which would disqualify her at\nonce from any clandestine proceedings. Besides, 'clandestine!' why,\nthe child is truth itself. Papa, are you sure Mr. Sheepshanks said it\nwas Miss Gibson that was exciting Hollingford scandal? Wasn't it Miss\nKirkpatrick? The notion of her and Mr. Preston making a match of it\ndoesn't sound so incongruous; but if it's my little friend Molly,\nI'll go to church and forbid the banns.\"\n\n\"Really, Harriet, I can't think what always makes you take such an\ninterest in all these petty Hollingford affairs.\"\n\n\"Mamma, it's only tit for tat. They take the most lively interest\nin all our sayings and doings. If I were going to be married, they\nwould want to know every possible particular,--when we first met,\nwhat we first said to each other, what I wore, and whether he offered\nby letter or in person. I'm sure those good Miss Brownings were\nwonderfully well-informed as to Mary's methods of managing her\nnursery, and educating her girls; so it's only a proper return of the\ncompliment to want to know on our side how they are going on. I'm\nquite of papa's faction. I like to hear all the local gossip.\"\n\n\"Especially when it is flavoured with a spice of scandal and\nimpropriety, as in this case,\" said Lady Cumnor, with the momentary\nbitterness of a convalescent invalid. Lady Harriet coloured with\nannoyance. But then she rallied her courage, and said with more\ngravity than before,--\n\n\"I am really interested in this story about Molly Gibson, I own. I\nboth like and respect her; and I do not like to hear her name coupled\nwith that of Mr. Preston. I can't help fancying papa has made some\nmistake.\"\n\n\"No, my dear. I'm sure I'm repeating what I heard. I'm sorry I said\nanything about it, if it annoys you or my lady there. Sheepshanks did\nsay Miss Gibson, though, and he went on to say it was a pity the girl\nhad got herself so talked about; for it was the way they had carried\non that gave rise to all the chatter. Preston himself was a very\nfair match for her, and nobody could have objected to it. But I'll\ntry and find a more agreeable piece of news. Old Margery at the\nlodge is dead; and they don't know where to find some one to teach\nclear-starching at your school; and Robert Hall made forty pounds\nlast year by his apples.\" So they drifted away from Molly and her\naffairs; only Lady Harriet kept turning what she had heard over in\nher own mind with interest and wonder.\n\n\"I warned her against him the day of her father's wedding. And what\na straightforward, out-spoken topic it was then! I don't believe it;\nit's only one of old Sheepshanks' stories, half invention and half\ndeafness.\"\n\nThe next day Lady Harriet rode over to Hollingford, and for the\nsettling of her curiosity she called on Miss Brownings, and\nintroduced the subject. She would not have spoken about the rumour\nshe had heard to any who were not warm friends of Molly's. If Mr.\nSheepshanks had chosen to allude to it when she had been riding with\nher father, she would very soon have silenced him by one of the\nhaughty looks she knew full well how to assume. But she felt as if\nshe must know the truth, and accordingly she began thus abruptly to\nMiss Browning:\n\n\"What is all this I hear about my little friend Molly Gibson and Mr.\nPreston?\"\n\n\"Oh, Lady Harriet! have you heard of it? We are so sorry!\"\n\n\"Sorry for what?\"\n\n\"I think, begging your ladyship's pardon, we had better not say any\nmore till we know how much you know,\" said Miss Browning.\n\n\"Nay,\" replied Lady Harriet, laughing a little, \"I shan't tell what I\nknow till I am sure you know more. Then we'll make an exchange if you\nlike.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it's no laughing matter for poor Molly,\" said Miss\nBrowning, shaking her head. \"People do say such things!\"\n\n\"But I don't believe them; indeed I don't,\" burst in Miss Phoebe,\nhalf crying.\n\n\"No more will I, then,\" said Lady Harriet, taking the good lady's\nhand.\n\n\"It's all very fine, Phoebe, saying you don't believe them, but I\nshould like to know who it was that convinced me, sadly against my\nwill, I am sure.\"\n\n\"I only told you the facts as Mrs. Goodenough told them me, sister;\nbut I'm sure if you had seen poor patient Molly as I have done,\nsitting up in a corner of a room, looking at the _Beauties of England\nand Wales_ till she must have been sick of them, and no one speaking\nto her; and she as gentle and sweet as ever at the end of the\nevening, though maybe a bit pale--facts or no facts, I won't believe\nanything against her.\"\n\nSo there sate Miss Phoebe, in tearful defiance of facts.\n\n\"And, as I said before, I'm quite of your opinion,\" said Lady\nHarriet.\n\n\"But how does your ladyship explain away her meetings with Mr.\nPreston in all sorts of unlikely and open-air places?\" asked Miss\nBrowning,--who, to do her justice, would have been only too glad to\njoin Molly's partisans, if she could have preserved her character for\nlogical deduction at the same time. \"I went so far as to send for her\nfather and tell him all about it. I thought at least he would have\nhorsewhipped Mr. Preston; but he seems to have taken no notice of\nit.\"\n\n\"Then we may be quite sure he knows some way of explaining matters\nthat we don't,\" said Lady Harriet, decisively. \"After all, there\nmay be a hundred and fifty perfectly natural and justifiable\nexplanations.\"\n\n\"Mr. Gibson knew of none when I thought it my duty to speak to him,\"\nsaid Miss Browning.\n\n\"Why, suppose that Mr. Preston is engaged to Miss Kirkpatrick, and\nMolly is confidante and messenger?\"\n\n\"I don't see that your ladyship's supposition much alters the blame.\nWhy, if he is honourably engaged to Cynthia Kirkpatrick, does he not\nvisit her openly at her home in Mr. Gibson's house? Why does Molly\nlend herself to clandestine proceedings?\"\n\n\"One can't account for everything,\" said Lady Harriet, a little\nimpatiently, for reason was going hard against her. \"But I choose to\nhave faith in Molly Gibson. I'm sure she's not done anything very\nwrong. I've a great mind to go and call on her--Mrs. Gibson is\nconfined to her room with this horrid influenza--and take her with\nme on a round of calls through this little gossiping town,--on Mrs.\nGoodenough, or Badenough, who seems to have been propagating all\nthese stories. But I've not time to-day. I've to meet papa at three,\nand it's three now. Only remember, Miss Phoebe, it's you and I\nagainst the world, in defence of a distressed damsel.\"\n\n\"Don Quixote and Sancho Panza!\" said she to herself as she ran\nlightly down Miss Browning's old-fashioned staircase.\n\n\"Now, I don't think that's pretty of you, Phoebe,\" said Miss\nBrowning in some displeasure, as soon as she was alone with her\nsister. \"First, you convince me against my will, and make me very\nunhappy; and I have to do unpleasant things, all because you've made\nme believe that certain statements are true; and then you turn round\nand cry, and say you don't believe a word of it all, making me out\na regular ogre and backbiter. No! it's of no use. I shan't listen\nto you.\" So she left Miss Phoebe in tears, and locked herself up in\nher own room.\n\nLady Harriet, meanwhile, was riding homewards by her father's side,\napparently listening to all he chose to say, but in reality turning\nover the probabilities and possibilities that might account for these\nstrange interviews between Molly and Mr. Preston. It was a case of\n_parler de l'âne et l'on en voit les oreilles_. At a turn in the road\nthey saw Mr. Preston a little way before them, coming towards them on\nhis good horse, _point device_, in his riding attire.\n\nThe earl, in his thread-bare coat, and on his old brown cob, called\nout cheerfully,--\n\n\"Aha! here's Preston. Good-day to you. I was just wanting to ask you\nabout that slip of pasture-land on the Home Farm. John Brickkill\nwants to plough it up and crop it. It's not two acres at the best.\"\n\nWhile they were talking over this bit of land, Lady Harriet came to\nher resolution. As soon as her father had finished, she said,--\"Mr.\nPreston, perhaps you will allow me to ask you one or two questions to\nrelieve my mind, for I am in some little perplexity at present.\"\n\n\n[Illustration: LADY HARRIET ASKS ONE OR TWO QUESTIONS.]\n\n\n\"Certainly; I shall only be too happy to give you any information in\nmy power.\" But the moment after he had made this polite speech, he\nrecollected Molly's speech--that she would refer her case to Lady\nHarriet. But the letters had been returned, and the affair was now\nwound up. She had come off conqueror, he the vanquished. Surely she\nwould never have been so ungenerous as to appeal after that.\n\n\"There are reports about Miss Gibson and you current among the\ngossips of Hollingford. Are we to congratulate you on your engagement\nto that young lady?\"\n\n\"Ah! by the way, Preston, we ought to have done it before,\"\ninterrupted Lord Cumnor, in hasty goodwill. But his daughter said\nquietly, \"Mr. Preston has not yet told us if the reports are well\nfounded, papa.\"\n\nShe looked at him with the air of a person expecting an answer, and\nexpecting a truthful answer.\n\n\"I am not so fortunate,\" replied he, trying to make his horse appear\nfidgety, without incurring observation.\n\n\"Then I may contradict that report?\" asked Lady Harriet quickly. \"Or\nis there any reason for believing that in time it may come true? I\nask because such reports, if unfounded, do harm to young ladies.\"\n\n\"Keep other sweethearts off,\" put in Lord Cumnor, looking a good deal\npleased at his own discernment. Lady Harriet went on:--\n\n\"And I take a great interest in Miss Gibson.\"\n\nMr. Preston saw from her manner that he was \"in for it,\" as he\nexpressed it to himself. The question was, how much or how little did\nshe know?\n\n\"I have no expectation or hope of ever having a nearer interest\nin Miss Gibson than I have at present. I shall be glad if this\nstraightforward answer relieves your ladyship from your perplexity.\"\n\nHe could not help the touch of insolence that accompanied these last\nwords. It was not in the words themselves, nor in the tone in which\nthey were spoken, nor in the look which accompanied them, it was in\nall; it implied a doubt of Lady Harriet's right to question him as\nshe did; and there was something of defiance in it as well. But this\ntouch of insolence put Lady Harriet's mettle up; and she was not one\nto check herself, in any course, for the opinion of an inferior.\n\n\"Then, sir! are you aware of the injury you may do to a young lady's\nreputation if you meet her, and detain her in long conversations,\nwhen she is walking by herself, unaccompanied by any one? You give\nrise--you have given rise to reports.\"\n\n\"My dear Harriet, are not you going too far? You don't know--Mr.\nPreston may have intentions--unacknowledged intentions.\"\n\n\"No, my lord. I have no intentions with regard to Miss Gibson. She\nmay be a very worthy young lady--I have no doubt she is. Lady Harriet\nseems determined to push me into such a position that I cannot\nbut acknowledge myself to be--it is not enviable--not pleasant to\nown--but I am, in fact, a jilted man; jilted by Miss Kirkpatrick,\nafter a tolerably long engagement. My interviews with Miss Gibson\nwere not of the most agreeable kind--as you may conclude when I\ntell you she was, I believe, the instigator--certainly, she was the\nagent in this last step of Miss Kirkpatrick's. Is your ladyship's\ncuriosity\" (with an emphasis on this last word) \"satisfied with this\nrather mortifying confession of mine?\"\n\n\"Harriet, my dear, you've gone too far--we had no right to pry into\nMr. Preston's private affairs.\"\n\n\"No more I had,\" said Lady Harriet, with a smile of winning\nfrankness: the first smile she had accorded to Mr. Preston for many\na long day; ever since the time, years ago, when, presuming on his\nhandsomeness, he had assumed a tone of gallant familiarity with Lady\nHarriet, and paid her personal compliments as he would have done to\nan equal.\n\n\"But he will excuse me, I hope,\" continued she, still in that\ngracious manner which made him feel that he now held a much higher\nplace in her esteem than he had had at the beginning of their\ninterview, \"when he learns that the busy tongues of the Hollingford\nladies have been speaking of my friend, Miss Gibson, in the most\nunwarrantable manner; drawing unjustifiable inferences from the facts\nof that intercourse with Mr. Preston, the nature of which he has just\nconferred such a real obligation on me by explaining.\"\n\n\"I think I need hardly request Lady Harriet to consider this\nexplanation of mine as confidential,\" said Mr. Preston.\n\n\"Of course, of course!\" said the earl; \"every one will understand\nthat.\" And he rode home, and told his wife and Lady Cuxhaven the\nwhole conversation between Lady Harriet and Mr. Preston; in the\nstrictest confidence, of course. Lady Harriet had to stand a good\nmany strictures on manners, and proper dignity for a few days after\nthis. However, she consoled herself by calling on the Gibsons; and,\nfinding that Mrs. Gibson (who was still an invalid) was asleep at the\ntime, she experienced no difficulty in carrying off the unconscious\nMolly for a walk, which Lady Harriet so contrived that they twice\npassed through all the length of the principal street of the town,\nloitered at Grinstead's for half an hour, and wound up by Lady\nHarriet's calling on the Miss Brownings, who, to her regret, were not\nat home.\n\n\"Perhaps, it's as well,\" said she, after a minute's consideration.\n\"I'll leave my card, and put your name down underneath it, Molly.\"\n\nMolly was a little puzzled by the manner in which she had been taken\npossession of, like an inanimate chattel, for all the afternoon, and\nexclaimed,--\"Please, Lady Harriet--I never leave cards; I have not\ngot any, and on the Miss Brownings, of all people; why, I am in and\nout whenever I like.\"\n\n\"Never mind, little one. To-day you shall do everything properly, and\naccording to full etiquette.\"\n\n\"And now tell Mrs. Gibson to come out to the Towers for a long day;\nwe will send the carriage for her whenever she will let us know that\nshe is strong enough to come. Indeed, she had better come for a few\ndays; at this time of the year it doesn't do for an invalid to be out\nin the evenings, even in a carriage.\" So spoke Lady Harriet, standing\non the white door-steps at Miss Brownings', and holding Molly's hand\nwhile she wished her good-by. \"You'll tell her, dear, that I came\npartly to see her--but that finding her asleep, I ran off with you,\nand don't forget about her coming to stay with us for change of\nair--mamma will like it, I'm sure--and the carriage, and all that.\nAnd now good-by, we've done a good day's work! And better than you're\naware of,\" continued she, still addressing Molly, though the latter\nwas quite out of hearing. \"Hollingford is not the place I take it\nto be, if it doesn't veer round in Miss Gibson's favour after my\nto-day's trotting of that child about.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L.\n\nCYNTHIA AT BAY.\n\n\nMrs. Gibson was slow in recovering her strength after the influenza,\nand before she was well enough to accept Lady Harriet's invitation to\nthe Towers, Cynthia came home from London. If Molly had thought her\nmanner of departure was scarcely as affectionate and considerate as\nit might have been,--if such a thought had crossed Molly's fancy\nfor an instant, she was repentant for it as soon as ever Cynthia\nreturned, and the girls met together face to face, with all the old\nfamiliar affection, going upstairs to the drawing-room, with their\narms round each other's waists, and sitting there together hand in\nhand. Cynthia's whole manner was more quiet than it had been, when\nthe weight of her unpleasant secret rested on her mind, and made her\nalternately despondent or flighty.\n\n\"After all,\" said Cynthia, \"there's a look of home about these rooms\nwhich is very pleasant. But I wish I could see you looking stronger,\nmamma! that's the only unpleasant thing. Molly, why didn't you send\nfor me?\"\n\n\"I wanted to do,\" began Molly--\n\n\"But I wouldn't let her,\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"You were much better\nin London than here, for you could have done me no good; and your\nletters were very agreeable to read; and now Helen is better, and\nI'm nearly well, and you've come home just at the right time, for\neverybody is full of the Charity Ball.\"\n\n\"But we are not going this year, mamma,\" said Cynthia decidedly.\n\"It's on the 25th, isn't it? and I'm sure you'll never be well enough\nto take us.\"\n\n\"You really seem determined to make me out worse than I am, child,\"\nsaid Mrs. Gibson, rather querulously, she being one of those who,\nwhen their malady is only trifling, exaggerate it, but when it is\nreally of some consequence, are unwilling to sacrifice any pleasures\nby acknowledging it. It was well for her in this instance that her\nhusband had wisdom and authority enough to forbid her going to\nthis ball, on which she had set her heart; but the consequence of\nhis prohibition was an increase of domestic plaintiveness and low\nspirits, which seemed to tell on Cynthia--the bright gay Cynthia\nherself--and it was often hard work for Molly to keep up the spirits\nof two other people as well as her own. Ill-health might account for\nMrs. Gibson's despondency, but why was Cynthia so silent, not to say\nso sighing? Molly was puzzled to account for it; and all the more\nperplexed because from time to time Cynthia kept calling upon her for\npraise for some unknown and mysterious virtue that she had practised;\nand Molly was young enough to believe that, after any exercise of\nvirtue, the spirits rose, cheered up by an approving conscience.\nSuch was not the case with Cynthia, however. She sometimes said\nsuch things as these, when she had been particularly inert and\ndesponding:--\n\n\"Ah, Molly, you must let my goodness lie fallow for a while!\nIt has borne such a wonderful crop this year. I have been so\npretty-behaved--if you knew all!\" Or, \"Really, Molly, my virtue\nmust come down from the clouds! It was strained to the utmost in\nLondon--and I find it is like a kite--after soaring aloft for some\ntime, it suddenly comes down, and gets tangled in all sorts of\nbriars and brambles; which things are an allegory, unless you can\nbring yourself to believe in my extraordinary goodness while I was\naway--giving me a sort of right to fall foul of all mamma's briars\nand brambles now.\"\n\nBut Molly had had some experience of Cynthia's whim of perpetually\nhinting at a mystery which she did not mean to reveal in the Mr.\nPreston days, and, although she was occasionally piqued into\ncuriosity, Cynthia's allusions at something more in the background\nfell in general on rather deaf ears. One day the mystery burst its\nshell, and came out in the shape of an offer made to Cynthia by Mr.\nHenderson--and refused. Under all the circumstances, Molly could not\nappreciate the heroic goodness so often alluded to. The revelation of\nthe secret at last took place in this way. Mrs. Gibson breakfasted\nin bed: she had done so ever since she had had the influenza;\nand, consequently, her own private letters always went up on her\nbreakfast-tray. One morning she came into the drawing-room earlier\nthan usual, with an open letter in her hand.\n\n\"I've had a letter from aunt Kirkpatrick, Cynthia. She sends me my\ndividends,--your uncle is so busy. But what does she mean by this,\nCynthia?\" (holding out the letter to her, with a certain paragraph\nindicated by her finger). Cynthia put her netting on one side, and\nlooked at the writing. Suddenly her face turned scarlet, and then\nbecame of a deadly white. She looked at Molly, as if to gain courage\nfrom the strong serene countenance.\n\n\"It means--mamma, I may as well tell you at once--Mr. Henderson\noffered to me while I was in London, and I refused him.\"\n\n\"Refused him--and you never told me, but let me hear it by chance!\nReally, Cynthia, I think you're very unkind. And pray what made you\nrefuse Mr. Henderson? Such a fine young man,--and such a gentleman!\nYour uncle told me he had a very good private fortune besides.\"\n\n\"Mamma, do you forget that I have promised to marry Roger Hamley?\"\nsaid Cynthia quietly.\n\n\"No! of course I don't--how can I, with Molly always dinning the word\n'engagement' into my ears? But really, when one considers all the\nuncertainties,--and after all it was not a distinct promise,--he\nseemed almost as if he might have looked forward to something of this\nsort.\"\n\n\"Of what sort, mamma?\" said Cynthia, sharply.\n\n\"Why, of a more eligible offer. He must have known you might change\nyour mind, and meet with some one you liked better: so little as you\nhad seen of the world.\" Cynthia made an impatient movement, as if to\nstop her mother.\n\n\"I never said I liked him better,--how can you talk so, mamma? I'm\ngoing to marry Roger, and there's an end of it. I will not be spoken\nto about it again.\" She got up and left the room.\n\n\"Going to marry Roger! That's all very fine. But who is to guarantee\nhis coming back alive? And if he does, what have they to marry\nupon, I should like to know? I don't wish her to have accepted Mr.\nHenderson, though I am sure she liked him; and true love ought to\nhave its course, and not be thwarted; but she need not have quite\nfinally refused him until--well, until we had seen how matters turn\nout. Such an invalid as I am too! It has given me quite a palpitation\nat the heart. I do call it quite unfeeling of Cynthia.\"\n\n\"Certainly,--\" began Molly; but then she remembered that her\nstepmother was far from strong, and unable to bear a protest in\nfavour of the right course without irritation. So she changed her\nspeech into a suggestion of remedies for palpitation; and curbed her\nimpatience to speak out her indignation at the contemplated falsehood\nto Roger. But when they were alone, and Cynthia began upon the\nsubject, Molly was less merciful. Cynthia said,--\n\n\"Well, Molly, and now you know all! I've been longing to tell\nyou--and yet somehow I could not.\"\n\n\"I suppose it was a repetition of Mr. Coxe,\" said Molly, gravely.\n\"You were agreeable,--and he took it for something more.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" sighed Cynthia. \"I mean I don't know if I was\nagreeable or not. He was very kind--very pleasant--but I did not\nexpect it all to end as it did. However, it's of no use thinking of\nit.\"\n\n\"No!\" said Molly, simply; for to her mind the pleasantest and kindest\nperson in the world put in comparison with Roger was as nothing; he\nstood by himself. Cynthia's next words,--and they did not come very\nsoon,--were on quite a different subject, and spoken in rather a\npettish tone. Nor did she allude again in jesting sadness to her late\nefforts at virtue.\n\nIn a little while Mrs. Gibson was able to accept the often-repeated\ninvitation from the Towers to go and stay there for a day or two.\nLady Harriet told her that it would be a kindness to Lady Cumnor to\ncome and bear her company in the life of seclusion the latter was\nstill compelled to lead; and Mrs. Gibson was flattered and gratified\nwith a dim unconscious sense of being really wanted, not merely\ndeluding herself into a pleasing fiction. Lady Cumnor was in that\nstate of convalescence common to many invalids. The spring of\nlife had begun again to flow, and with the flow returned the old\ndesires and projects and plans, which had all become mere matters of\nindifference during the worst part of her illness. But as yet her\nbodily strength was not sufficient to be an agent to her energetic\nmind, and the difficulty of driving the ill-matched pair of body and\nwill--the one weak and languid, the other strong and stern,--made\nher ladyship often very irritable. Mrs. Gibson herself was not quite\nstrong enough for a \"_souffre-douleur_;\" and the visit to the Towers\nwas not, on the whole, quite so happy a one as she had anticipated.\nLady Cuxhaven and Lady Harriet, each aware of their mother's state\nof health and temper, but only alluding to it as slightly as was\nabsolutely necessary in their conversations with each other, took\ncare not to leave \"Clare\" too long with Lady Cumnor; but several\ntimes when one or the other went to relieve guard they found Clare in\ntears, and Lady Cumnor holding forth on some point on which she had\nbeen meditating during the silent hours of her illness, and on which\nshe seemed to consider herself born to set the world to rights. Mrs.\nGibson was always apt to consider these remarks as addressed with a\npersonal direction at some error of her own, and defended the fault\nin question with a sense of property in it, whatever it might happen\nto be. The second and the last day of her stay at the Towers, Lady\nHarriet came in, and found her mother haranguing in an excited tone\nof voice, and Clare looking submissive and miserable and oppressed.\n\n\"What's the matter, dear mamma? Are not you tiring yourself with\ntalking?\"\n\n\"No, not at all! I was only speaking of the folly of people dressing\nabove their station. I began by telling Clare of the fashions of\nmy grandmother's days, when every class had a sort of costume of\nits own,--and servants did not ape tradespeople, nor tradespeople\nprofessional men, and so on,--and what must the foolish woman do but\nbegin to justify her own dress, as if I had been accusing her, or\neven thinking about her at all. Such nonsense! Really, Clare, your\nhusband has spoilt you sadly, if you can't listen to any one without\nthinking they are alluding to you. People may flatter themselves\njust as much by thinking that their faults are always present to\nother people's minds, as if they believe that the world is always\ncontemplating their individual charms and virtues.\"\n\n\"I was told, Lady Cumnor, that this silk was reduced in price. I\nbought it at Waterloo House after the season was over,\" said Mrs.\nGibson, touching the very handsome gown she wore in deprecation of\nLady Cumnor's angry voice, and blundering on to the very source of\nirritation.\n\n\"Again, Clare! How often must I tell you I had no thought of you or\nyour gowns, or whether they cost much or little; your husband has to\npay for them, and it is his concern if you spend more on your dress\nthan you ought to do.\"\n\n\"It was only five guineas for the whole dress,\" pleaded Mrs. Gibson.\n\n\"And very pretty it is,\" said Lady Harriet, stooping to examine it,\nand so hoping to soothe the poor aggrieved woman. But Lady Cumnor\nwent on,--\n\n\"No! you ought to have known me better by this time. When I\nthink a thing I say it out. I don't beat about the bush. I use\nstraightforward language. I will tell you where I think you have\nbeen in fault, Clare, if you like to know.\" Like it or not, the\nplain-speaking was coming now. \"You have spoilt that girl of yours\ntill she does not know her own mind. She has behaved abominably\nto Mr. Preston; and it is all in consequence of the faults in her\neducation. You have much to answer for.\"\n\n\"Mamma, mamma!\" said Lady Harriet, \"Mr. Preston did not wish\nit spoken about.\" And at the same moment Mrs. Gibson exclaimed,\n\"Cynthia--Mr. Preston!\" in such a tone of surprise, that if Lady\nCumnor had been in the habit of observing the revelations made by\nother people's tones and voices, she would have found out that Mrs.\nGibson was ignorant of the affair to which she was alluding.\n\n\"As for Mr. Preston's wishes, I do not suppose I am bound to regard\nthem when I feel it my duty to reprove error,\" said Lady Cumnor\nloftily to Lady Harriet. \"And, Clare, do you mean to say that you are\nnot aware that your daughter has been engaged to Mr. Preston for some\ntime--years, I believe,--and has at last chosen to break it off,--and\nhas used the Gibson girl--I forget her name--as a cat's-paw, and made\nboth her and herself the town's talk--the butt for all the gossip\nof Hollingford? I remember when I was young there was a girl called\nJilting Jessy. You'll have to watch over your young lady, or she\nwill get some such name. I speak to you like a friend, Clare, when\nI tell you it's my opinion that girl of yours will get herself into\nsome more mischief yet before she's safely married. Not that I care\none straw for Mr. Preston's feelings. I don't even know if he's got\nfeelings or not; but I know what is becoming in a young woman, and\njilting is not. And now you may both go away, and send Bradley to me,\nfor I'm tired, and want to have a little sleep.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Lady Cumnor--will you believe me?--I do not think Cynthia\nwas ever engaged to Mr. Preston. There was an old flirtation. I was\nafraid--\"\n\n\"Ring the bell for Bradley,\" said Lady Cumnor, wearily: her eyes\nclosed. Lady Harriet had too much experience of her mother's moods\nnot to lead Mrs. Gibson away almost by main force, she protesting\nall the while that she did not think there was any truth in the\nstatement, though it was dear Lady Cumnor that said it.\n\nOnce in her own room, Lady Harriet said, \"Now, Clare, I'll tell\nyou all about it; and I think you'll have to believe it, for it\nwas Mr. Preston himself who told me. I heard of a great commotion\nin Hollingford about Mr. Preston; and I met him riding out, and\nasked him what it was all about; he didn't want to speak about it,\nevidently. No man does, I suppose, when he's been jilted; and he made\nboth papa and me promise not to tell; but papa did--and that's what\nmamma has for a foundation; you see, a really good one.\"\n\n\"But Cynthia is engaged to another man--she really is. And another--a\nvery good match indeed--has just been offering to her in London. Mr.\nPreston is always at the root of mischief.\"\n\n\"Nay! I do think in this case it must be that pretty Miss Cynthia\nof yours who has drawn on one man to be engaged to her,--not to say\ntwo,--and another to make her an offer. I can't endure Mr. Preston,\nbut I think it's rather hard to accuse him of having called up the\nrivals, who are, I suppose, the occasion of his being jilted.\"\n\n\"I don't know; I always feel as if he owed me a grudge, and men have\nso many ways of being spiteful. You must acknowledge that if he had\nnot met you I should not have had dear Lady Cumnor so angry with me.\"\n\n\"She only wanted to warn you about Cynthia. Mamma has always been\nvery particular about her own daughters. She has been very severe on\nthe least approach to flirting, and Mary will be like her!\"\n\n\"But Cynthia will flirt, and I can't help it. She is not noisy, or\ngiggling; she is always a lady--that everybody must own. But she\nhas a way of attracting men, she must have inherited from me, I\nthink.\" And here she smiled faintly, and would not have rejected a\nconfirmatory compliment, but none came. \"However, I will speak to\nher; I will get to the bottom of the whole affair. Pray tell Lady\nCumnor that it has so fluttered me the way she spoke, about my dress\nand all. And it only cost five guineas after all, reduced from\neight!\"\n\n\"Well, never mind now. You are looking very much flushed; quite\nfeverish! I left you too long in mamma's hot room. But do you know\nshe is so much pleased to have you here?\" And so Lady Cumnor really\nwas, in spite of the continual lectures which she gave \"Clare,\" and\nwhich poor Mrs. Gibson turned under as helplessly as the typical\nworm. Still it was something to have a countess to scold her; and\nthat pleasure would endure when the worry was past. And then Lady\nHarriet petted her more than usual to make up for what she had to go\nthrough in the convalescent's room; and Lady Cuxhaven talked sense to\nher, with dashes of science and deep thought intermixed, which was\nvery flattering, although generally unintelligible; and Lord Cumnor,\ngood-natured, good-tempered, kind, and liberal, was full of gratitude\nto her for her kindness in coming to see Lady Cumnor, and his\ngratitude took the tangible shape of a haunch of venison, to say\nnothing of lesser game. When she looked back upon her visit, as she\ndrove home in the solitary grandeur of the Towers' carriage, there\nhad been but one great enduring rub--Lady Cumnor's crossness--and she\nchose to consider Cynthia as the cause of that, instead of seeing the\ntruth, which had been so often set before her by the members of her\nladyship's family, that it took its origin in her state of health.\nMrs. Gibson did not exactly mean to visit this one discomfort upon\nCynthia, nor did she quite mean to upbraid her daughter for conduct\nas yet unexplained, and which might have some justification; but,\nfinding her quietly sitting in the drawing-room, she sate down\ndespondingly in her own little easy chair, and in reply to Cynthia's\nquick pleasant greeting of--\n\n\"Well, mamma, how are you? We didn't expect you so early! Let me take\noff your bonnet and shawl!\" she replied dolefully,--\n\n\"It has not been such a happy visit that I should wish to prolong\nit.\" Her eyes were fixed on the carpet, and her face was as\nirresponsive to the welcome offered as she could make it.\n\n\"What has been the matter?\" asked Cynthia, in all good faith.\n\n\"You! Cynthia--you! I little thought when you were born how I should\nhave to bear to hear you spoken about.\"\n\nCynthia threw back her head, and angry light came into her eyes.\n\n\"What business have they with me? How came they to talk about me in\nany way?\"\n\n\"Everybody is talking about you; it is no wonder they are. Lord\nCumnor is sure to hear about everything always. You should take more\ncare about what you do, Cynthia, if you don't like being talked\nabout.\"\n\n\"It rather depends upon what people say,\" said Cynthia, affecting a\nlightness which she did not feel; for she had a prevision of what was\ncoming.\n\n\"Well! I don't like it, at any rate. It is not pleasant to me to hear\nfirst of my daughter's misdoings from Lady Cumnor, and then to be\nlectured about her, and her flirting, and her jilting, as if I had\nhad anything to do with it. I can assure you it has quite spoilt my\nvisit. No! don't touch my shawl. When I go to my room I can take it\nmyself.\"\n\nCynthia was brought to bay, and sate down; remaining with her mother,\nwho kept sighing ostentatiously from time to time.\n\n\"Would you mind telling me what they said? If there are accusations\nabroad against me, it is as well I should know what they are. Here's\nMolly\" (as the girl entered the room, fresh from a morning's walk).\n\"Molly, mamma has come back from the Towers, and my lord and my\nlady have been doing me the honour to talk over my crimes and\nmisdemeanors, and I am asking mamma what they have said. I don't set\nup for more virtue than other people, but I can't make out what an\nearl and a countess have to do with poor little me.\"\n\n\"It was not for your sake!\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"It was for mine. They\nfelt for me, for it is not pleasant to have one's child's name in\neverybody's mouth.\"\n\n\"As I said before, that depends upon how it is in everybody's mouth.\nIf I were going to marry Lord Hollingford, I make no doubt every one\nwould be talking about me, and neither you nor I should mind it in\nthe least.\"\n\n\"But this is no marriage with Lord Hollingford, so it is nonsense to\ntalk as if it was. They say you've gone and engaged yourself to Mr.\nPreston, and now refuse to marry him; and they call that jilting.\"\n\n\"Do you wish me to marry him, mamma?\" asked Cynthia, her face in\na flame, her eyes cast down. Molly stood by, very hot, not fully\nunderstanding it; and only kept where she was by the hope of coming\nin as sweetener or peacemaker, or helper of some kind.\n\n\"No,\" said Mrs. Gibson, evidently discomfited by the question. \"Of\ncourse I don't; you have gone and entangled yourself with Roger\nHamley, a very worthy young man; but nobody knows where he is, and if\nhe's dead or alive; and he has not a penny if he is alive.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon. I know that he has some fortune from his mother;\nit may not be much, but he is not penniless; and he is sure to\nearn fame and great reputation, and with it money will come,\" said\nCynthia.\n\n\"You've entangled yourself with him, and you've done something of the\nsort with Mr. Preston, and got yourself into such an imbroglio\" (Mrs.\nGibson could not have said \"mess\" for the world, although the word\nwas present to her mind), \"that when a really eligible person comes\nforward--handsome, agreeable, and quite the gentleman--and a good\nprivate fortune into the bargain, you have to refuse him. You'll end\nas an old maid, Cynthia, and it will break my heart.\"\n\n\"I daresay I shall,\" said Cynthia, quietly. \"I sometimes think I'm\nthe kind of person of which old maids are made!\" She spoke seriously,\nand a little sadly.\n\nMrs. Gibson began again. \"I don't want to know your secrets as long\nas they are secrets; but when all the town is talking about you, I\nthink I ought to be told.\"\n\n\"But, mamma, I didn't know I was such a subject of conversation; and\neven now I can't make out how it has come about.\"\n\n\"No more can I. I only know that they say you've been engaged to Mr.\nPreston, and ought to have married him, and that I can't help it, if\nyou did not choose, any more than I could have helped your refusing\nMr. Henderson; and yet I am constantly blamed for your misconduct.\nI think it's very hard.\" Mrs. Gibson began to cry. Just then her\nhusband came in.\n\n\"You here, my dear! Welcome back,\" said he, coming up to her\ncourteously, and kissing her cheek. \"Why, what's the matter? Tears?\"\nand he heartily wished himself away again.\n\n\"Yes!\" said she, raising herself up, and clutching after sympathy of\nany kind, at any price. \"I'm come home again, and I'm telling Cynthia\nhow Lady Cumnor has been so cross to me, and all through her. Did you\nknow she had gone and engaged herself to Mr. Preston, and then broken\nit off? Everybody is talking about it, and they know it up at the\nTowers.\"\n\nFor one moment his eyes met Molly's, and he comprehended it all. He\nmade his lips up into a whistle, but no sound came. Cynthia had quite\nlost her defiant manner since her mother had spoken to Mr. Gibson.\nMolly sate down by her.\n\n\"Cynthia,\" said he, very seriously.\n\n\"Yes!\" she answered, softly.\n\n\"Is this true? I had heard something of it before--not much; but\nthere is scandal enough about to make it desirable that you should\nhave some protector--some friend who knows the whole truth.\"\n\nNo answer. At last she said, \"Molly knows it all.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson, too, had been awed into silence by her husband's grave\nmanner, and she did not like to give vent to the jealous thought in\nher mind that Molly had known the secret of which she was ignorant.\nMr. Gibson replied to Cynthia with some sternness:\n\n\"Yes! I know that Molly knows it all, and that she has had to bear\nslander and ill words for your sake, Cynthia. But she refused to tell\nme more.\"\n\n\"She told you that much, did she?\" said Cynthia, aggrieved.\n\n\"I could not help it,\" said Molly.\n\n\"She didn't name your name,\" said Mr. Gibson. \"At the time I believe\nshe thought she had concealed it--but there was no mistaking who it\nwas.\"\n\n\"Why did she speak about it at all?\" said Cynthia, with some\nbitterness. Her tone--her question stirred up Mr. Gibson's passion.\n\n\"It was necessary for her to justify herself to me--I heard my\ndaughter's reputation attacked for the private meetings she had given\nto Mr. Preston--I came to her for an explanation. There's no need to\nbe ungenerous, Cynthia, because you've been a flirt and a jilt, even\nto the degree of dragging Molly's name down into the same mire.\"\n\nCynthia lifted her bowed-down head, and looked at him.\n\n\"You say that of me, Mr. Gibson? Not knowing what the circumstances\nare, you say that?\"\n\nHe had spoken too strongly: he knew it. But he could not bring\nhimself to own it just at that moment. The thought of his sweet\ninnocent Molly, who had borne so much patiently, prevented any\nretractation of his words at the time.\n\n\"Yes!\" he said, \"I do say it. You cannot tell what evil constructions\nare put upon actions ever so slightly beyond the bounds of maidenly\npropriety. I do say that Molly has had a great deal to bear, in\nconsequence of this clandestine engagement of yours, Cynthia--there\nmay be extenuating circumstances, I acknowledge--but you will need\nto remember them all to excuse your conduct to Roger Hamley, when\nhe comes home. I asked you to tell me the full truth, in order that\nuntil he comes, and has a legal right to protect you, I may do so.\"\nNo answer. \"It certainly requires explanation,\" continued he. \"Here\nare you,--engaged to two men at once to all appearances!\" Still no\nanswer. \"To be sure, the gossips of the town haven't yet picked out\nthe fact of Roger Hamley's being your accepted lover; but scandal has\nbeen resting on Molly, and ought to have rested on you, Cynthia--for\na concealed engagement to Mr. Preston--necessitating meetings in all\nsorts of places unknown to your friends.\"\n\n\"Papa,\" said Molly, \"if you knew all you wouldn't speak so to\nCynthia. I wish she would tell you herself all that she has told me.\"\n\n\"I am ready to hear whatever she has to say,\" said he. But Cynthia\nsaid,--\n\n\"No! you have prejudged me; you have spoken to me as you had no right\nto speak. I refuse to give you my confidence, or accept your help.\nPeople are very cruel to me\"--her voice trembled for a moment--\"I did\nnot think you would have been. But I can bear it.\"\n\nAnd then, in spite of Molly, who would have detained her by force,\nshe tore herself away, and hastily left the room.\n\n\"Oh, papa!\" said Molly, crying, and clinging to him, \"do let me\ntell you all.\" And then she suddenly recollected the awkwardness of\ntelling some of the details of the story before Mrs. Gibson, and\nstopped short.\n\n\"I think, Mr. Gibson, you have been very very unkind to my poor\nfatherless child,\" said Mrs. Gibson, emerging from behind her\npocket-handkerchief. \"I only wish her poor father had been alive,\nand all this would never have happened.\"\n\n\"Very probably. Still I cannot see of what either she or you have to\ncomplain. Inasmuch as we could, I and mine have sheltered her! I have\nloved her; I do love her almost as if she were my own child--as well\nas Molly, I do not pretend to do.\"\n\n\"That's it, Mr. Gibson! you do not treat her like your own child.\"\nBut in the midst of this wrangle Molly stole out, and went in search\nof Cynthia. She thought she bore an olive-branch of healing in the\nsound of her father's just spoken words: \"I do love her almost as if\nshe were my own child.\" But Cynthia was locked into her room, and\nrefused to open the door.\n\n\"Open to me, please,\" pleaded Molly. \"I have something to say to\nyou--I want to see you--do open!\"\n\n\"No!\" said Cynthia. \"Not now. I am busy. Leave me alone. I don't want\nto hear what you have got to say. I don't want to see you. By-and-by\nwe shall meet, and then--\" Molly stood quite quietly, wondering\nwhat new words of more persuasion she could use. In a minute or two\nCynthia called out, \"Are you there still, Molly?\" and when Molly\nanswered \"Yes,\" and hoped for a relenting, the same hard metallic\nvoice, telling of resolution and repression, spoke out, \"Go away. I\ncannot bear the feeling of your being there--waiting and listening.\nGo downstairs--out of the house--anywhere away. It is the most you\ncan do for me now.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI.\n\n\"TROUBLES NEVER COME ALONE.\"\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nMolly had her out-of-door things on, and she crept away as she was\nbidden. She lifted her heavy weight of heart and body along till\nshe came to a field, not so very far off,--where she had sought the\ncomfort of loneliness ever since she was a child; and there, under\nthe hedge-bank, she sate down, burying her face in her hands, and\nquivering all over as she thought of Cynthia's misery, which she\nmight not try to touch or assuage. She never knew how long she sate\nthere, but it was long past lunch-time when once again she stole\nup to her room. The door opposite was open wide,--Cynthia had\nquitted the chamber. Molly arranged her dress and went down into the\ndrawing-room. Cynthia and her mother sate there in the stern repose\nof an armed neutrality. Cynthia's face looked made of stone, for\ncolour and rigidity; but she was netting away as if nothing unusual\nhad occurred. Not so Mrs. Gibson; her face bore evident marks of\ntears, and she looked up and greeted Molly's entrance with a faint\nsmiling notice. Cynthia went on as though she had never heard the\nopening of the door, or felt the approaching sweep of Molly's dress.\nMolly took up a book,--not to read, but to have the semblance of some\nemployment which should not necessitate conversation.\n\nThere was no measuring the duration of the silence that ensued. Molly\ngrew to fancy it was some old enchantment that weighed upon their\ntongues and kept them still. At length Cynthia spoke, but she had to\nbegin again before her words came clear.\n\n\"I wish you both to know that henceforward all is at an end between\nme and Roger Hamley.\"\n\nMolly's book went down upon her knees; with open eyes and lips she\nstrove to draw in Cynthia's meaning. Mrs. Gibson spoke querulously,\nas if injured,--\n\n\"I could have understood this if it had happened three months\nago,--when you were in London; but now it's just nonsense, Cynthia,\nand you know you don't mean it!\"\n\nCynthia did not reply; nor did the resolute look on her face change\nwhen Molly spoke at last,--\n\n\"Cynthia--think of him! It will break his heart!\"\n\n\"No!\" said Cynthia, \"it will not. But even if it did I cannot help\nit.\"\n\n\"All this talk will soon pass away!\" said Molly; \"and when he knows\nthe truth from your own self--\"\n\n\"From my own self he shall never hear it. I do not love him well\nenough to go through the shame of having to excuse myself,--to\nplead that he will reinstate me in his good opinion. Confession may\nbe--well! I can never believe it pleasant--but it may be an ease of\nmind if one makes it to some people,--to some person,--and it may not\nbe a mortification to sue for forgiveness. I cannot tell. All I know\nis,--and I know it clearly, and will act upon it inflexibly--that--\"\nAnd here she stopped short.\n\n\"I think you might finish your sentence,\" said her mother, after a\nsilence of five seconds.\n\n\"I cannot bear to exculpate myself to Roger Hamley. I will not submit\nto his thinking less well of me than he has done,--however foolish\nhis judgment may have been. I would rather never see him again, for\nthese two reasons. And the truth is, I do not love him. I like him, I\nrespect him; but I will not marry him. I have written to tell him so.\nThat was merely as a relief to myself, for when or where the letter\nwill reach him-- And I have written to old Mr. Hamley. The relief\nis the one good thing come out of it all. It is such a comfort\nto feel free again. It wearied me so to think of straining up to\nhis goodness. 'Extenuate my conduct!'\" she concluded, quoting Mr.\nGibson's words. Yet when Mr. Gibson came home, after a silent dinner,\nshe asked to speak with him, alone, in his consulting-room; and there\nlaid bare the exculpation of herself which she had given to Molly\nmany weeks before. When she had ended, she said:\n\n\"And now, Mr. Gibson,--I still treat you like a friend,--help me to\nfind some home far away, where all the evil talking and gossip mamma\ntells me of cannot find me and follow me. It may be wrong to care\nfor people's good opinion,--but it is me, and I cannot alter myself.\nYou, Molly,--all the people in the town,--I haven't the patience\nto live through the nine days' wonder.--I want to go away and be a\ngoverness.\"\n\n\"But, my dear Cynthia,--how soon Roger will be back,--a tower of\nstrength!\"\n\n\"Has not mamma told you I have broken it all off with Roger? I\nwrote this morning. I wrote to his father. That letter will reach\nto-morrow. I wrote to Roger. If he ever receives that letter, I hope\nto be far away by that time; in Russia may be.\"\n\n\"Nonsense. An engagement like yours cannot be broken off, except by\nmutual consent. You've only given others a great deal of pain without\nfreeing yourself. Nor will you wish it in a month's time. When you\ncome to think calmly, you'll be glad to think of the stay and support\nof such a husband as Roger. You have been in fault, and have acted\nfoolishly at first,--perhaps wrongly afterwards; but you don't want\nyour husband to think you faultless?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do,\" said Cynthia. \"At any rate, my lover must think me so.\nAnd it is just because I do not love him even as so light a thing as\nI could love, that I feel that I couldn't bear to have to tell him\nI'm sorry, and stand before him like a chidden child to be admonished\nand forgiven.\"\n\n\"But here you are, just in such a position before me, Cynthia!\"\n\n\"Yes! but I love you better than Roger; I've often told Molly so. And\nI would have told you, if I hadn't expected and hoped to leave you\nall before long. I could see if the recollection of it all came up\nbefore your mind; I could see it in your eyes; I should know it by\ninstinct. I have a fine instinct for reading the thoughts of others\nwhen they refer to me. I almost hate the idea of Roger judging me by\nhis own standard, which wasn't made for me, and graciously forgiving\nme at last.\"\n\n\"Then I do believe it's right for you to break it off,\" said Mr.\nGibson, almost as if he were thinking to himself. \"That poor poor\nlad! But it will be best for him too. And he'll get over it. He has a\ngood strong heart. Poor old Roger!\"\n\nFor a moment Cynthia's wilful fancy stretched after the object\npassing out of her grasp,--Roger's love became for the instant\na treasure; but, again, she knew that in its entirety of high\nundoubting esteem, as well as of passionate regard, it would no\nlonger be hers; and for the flaw which she herself had made she cast\nit away, and would none of it. Yet often in after years, when it\nwas too late, she wondered and strove to penetrate the inscrutable\nmystery of \"what would have been.\"\n\n\"Still, take till to-morrow before you act upon your decision,\" said\nMr. Gibson, slowly. \"What faults you have fallen into have been mere\ngirlish faults at first,--leading you into much deceit, I grant.\"\n\n\"Don't give yourself the trouble to define the shades of blackness,\"\nsaid Cynthia, bitterly. \"I'm not so obtuse but what I know them all\nbetter than any one can tell me. And as for my decision I acted upon\nit at once. It may be long before Roger gets my letter,--but I hope\nhe is sure to get it at last,--and, as I said, I have let his father\nknow; it won't hurt him! Oh, sir, I think if I had been differently\nbrought up I shouldn't have had the sore angry heart I have. Now! No,\ndon't! I don't want reasoning comfort. I can't stand it. I should\nalways have wanted admiration and worship, and men's good opinion.\nThose unkind gossips! To visit Molly with their hard words! Oh, dear!\nI think life is very dreary.\"\n\nShe put her head down on her hands; tired out mentally as well as\nbodily. So Mr. Gibson thought. He felt as if much speech from him\nwould only add to her excitement, and make her worse. He left the\nroom, and called Molly, from where she was sitting, dolefully. \"Go\nto Cynthia!\" he whispered, and Molly went. She took Cynthia into her\narms with gentle power, and laid her head against her own breast, as\nif the one had been a mother, and the other a child.\n\n\"Oh, my darling!\" she murmured. \"I do so love you, dear, dear\nCynthia!\" and she stroked her hair, and kissed her eyelids; Cynthia\npassive all the while, till suddenly she started up stung with a new\nidea, and looking Molly straight in the face, she said,--\n\n\"Molly, Roger will marry you! See if it isn't so! You two good--\"\n\nBut Molly pushed her away with a sudden violence of repulsion.\n\"Don't!\" she said. She was crimson with shame and indignation. \"Your\nhusband this morning! Mine to-night! What do you take him for?\"\n\n\"A man!\" smiled Cynthia. \"And therefore, if you won't let me call\nhim changeable, I'll coin a word and call him consolable!\" But Molly\ngave her back no answering smile. At this moment, the servant Maria\nentered the consulting-room, where the two girls were. She had a\nscared look.\n\n\"Isn't master here?\" asked she, as if she distrusted her eyes.\n\n\"No!\" said Cynthia. \"I heard him go out. I heard him shut the front\ndoor not five minutes ago.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" said Maria. \"And there's a man come on horseback from\nHamley Hall, and he says as Mr. Osborne is dead, and that master must\ngo off to the Squire straight away.\"\n\n\"Osborne Hamley dead!\" said Cynthia, in awed surprise. Molly was out\nat the front door, seeking the messenger through the dusk, round into\nthe stable-yard, where the groom sate motionless on his dark horse,\nflecked with foam, made visible by the lantern placed on the steps\nnear, where it had been left by the servants, who were dismayed at\nthis news of the handsome young man who had frequented their master's\nhouse, so full of sportive elegance and winsomeness. Molly went up to\nthe man, whose thoughts were lost in recollection of the scene he had\nleft at the place he had come from.\n\nShe laid her hand on the hot damp skin of the horse's shoulder; the\nman started.\n\n\"Is the doctor coming, Miss?\" For he saw who it was by the dim light.\n\n\"He is dead, is he not?\" asked Molly, in a low voice.\n\n\"I'm afeard he is,--leastways, there's no doubt according to what\nthey said. But I've ridden hard! there may be a chance. Is the doctor\ncoming, Miss?\"\n\n\"He is gone out. They are seeking him, I believe. I will go myself.\nOh! the poor old Squire!\" She went into the kitchen--went over the\nhouse with swift rapidity to gain news of her father's whereabouts.\nThe servants knew no more than she did. Neither she nor they had\nheard what Cynthia, ever quick of perception, had done. The shutting\nof the front door had fallen on deaf ears, as far as others were\nconcerned. Upstairs sped Molly to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Gibson\nstood at the door, listening to the unusual stir in the house.\n\n\"What is it, Molly? Why, how white you look, child!\"\n\n\"Where's papa?\"\n\n\"Gone out. What's the matter?\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"How should I know? I was asleep; Jenny came upstairs on her way to\nthe bedrooms; she's a girl who never keeps to her work and Maria\ntakes advantage of her.\"\n\n\"Jenny, Jenny!\" cried Molly, frantic at the delay.\n\n\"Don't shout, dear,--ring the bell. What can be the matter?\"\n\n\"Oh, Jenny!\" said Molly, half-way up the stairs to meet her, \"who\nwanted papa?\"\n\nCynthia came to join the group; she too had been looking for traces\nor tidings of Mr. Gibson.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"Can nobody speak and answer\na question?\"\n\n\"Osborne Hamley is dead!\" said Cynthia, gravely.\n\n\"Dead! Osborne! Poor fellow! I knew it would be so, though,--I was\nsure of it. But Mr. Gibson can do nothing if he's dead. Poor young\nman! I wonder where Roger is now? He ought to come home.\"\n\nJenny had been blamed for coming into the drawing-room instead\nof Maria, whose place it was, and so had lost the few wits she\nhad. To Molly's hurried questions her replies had been entirely\nunsatisfactory. A man had come to the back door--she could not\nsee who it was--she had not asked his name: he wanted to speak to\nmaster,--master had seemed in a hurry, and only stopped to get his\nhat.\n\n\"He will not be long away,\" thought Molly, \"or he would have left\nword where he was going. But oh! the poor father all alone!\" And then\na thought came into her head, which she acted upon straight. \"Go to\nJames, tell him to put the side-saddle I had in November on Nora\nCreina. Don't cry, Jenny. There's no time for that. No one is angry\nwith you. Run!\"\n\nSo down into the cluster of collected women Molly came, equipped in\nher jacket and skirt; quick determination in her eyes; controlled\nquivering about the corners of her mouth.\n\n\"Why, what in the world,\" said Mrs. Gibson--\"Molly, what are you\nthinking about?\" But Cynthia had understood it at a glance, and was\narranging Molly's hastily assumed dress, as she passed along.\n\n\"I am going. I must go. I cannot bear to think of him alone. When\npapa comes back he is sure to go to Hamley, and if I am not wanted, I\ncan come back with him.\" She heard Mrs. Gibson's voice following her\nin remonstrance, but she did not stay for words. She had to wait in\nthe stable-yard, and she wondered how the messenger could bear to eat\nand drink the food and beer brought out to him by the servants. Her\ncoming out had evidently interrupted the eager talk,--the questions\nand answers passing sharp to and fro; but she caught the words, \"all\namongst the tangled grass,\" and \"the Squire would let none on us\ntouch him: he took him up as if he was a baby; he had to rest many\na time, and once he sate him down on the ground; but still he kept\nhim in his arms; but we thought we should ne'er have gotten him up\nagain--him and the body.\"\n\n\"The body!\"\n\nMolly had never felt that Osborne was really dead till she heard\nthose words. They rode quick under the shadows of the hedgerow trees,\nbut when they slackened speed, to go up a brow, or to give their\nhorses breath, Molly heard those two little words again in her ears;\nand said them over again to herself, in hopes of forcing the sharp\ntruth into her unwilling sense. But when they came in sight of the\nsquare stillness of the house, shining in the moonlight--the moon had\nrisen by this time--Molly caught at her breath, and for an instant\nshe thought she never could go in, and face the presence in that\ndwelling. One yellow light burnt steadily, spotting the silver\nshining with its earthly coarseness. The man pointed it out: it was\nalmost the first word he had spoken since they had left Hollingford.\n\n\"It's the old nursery. They carried him there. The Squire broke down\nat the stair-foot, and they took him to the readiest place. I'll be\nbound for it the Squire is there hisself, and old Robin too. They\nfetched him, as a knowledgable man among dumb beasts, till th'\nregular doctor came.\"\n\nMolly dropped down from her seat before the man could dismount to\nhelp her. She gathered up her skirts and did not stay again to think\nof what was before her. She ran along the once familiar turns, and\nswiftly up the stairs, and through the doors, till she came to the\nlast; then she stopped and listened. It was a deathly silence. She\nopened the door:--the Squire was sitting alone at the side of the\nbed, holding the dead man's hand, and looking straight before him\nat vacancy. He did not stir or move, even so much as an eyelid, at\nMolly's entrance. The truth had entered his soul before this, and\nhe knew that no doctor, be he ever so cunning, could, with all his\nstriving, put the breath into that body again. Molly came up to him\nwith the softest steps, the most hushed breath that ever she could.\nShe did not speak, for she did not know what to say. She felt that he\nhad no more hope from earthly skill, so what was the use of speaking\nof her father and the delay in his coming? After a moment's pause,\nstanding by the old man's side, she slipped down to the floor, and\nsat at his feet. Possibly her presence might have some balm in it;\nbut uttering of words was as a vain thing. He must have been aware\nof her being there, but he took no apparent notice. There they sate,\nsilent and still, he in his chair, she on the floor; the dead man,\nbeneath the sheet, for a third. She fancied that she must have\ndisturbed the father in his contemplation of the quiet face, now more\nthan half, but not fully, covered up out of sight. Time had never\nseemed so without measure, silence had never seemed so noiseless as\nit did to Molly, sitting there. In the acuteness of her senses she\nheard a step mounting a distant staircase, coming slowly, coming\nnearer. She knew it not to be her father's, and that was all she\ncared about. Nearer and nearer--close to the outside of the door--a\npause, and a soft hesitating tap. The great gaunt figure sitting by\nher side quivered at the sound. Molly rose and went to the door: it\nwas Robinson, the old butler, holding in his hand a covered basin of\nsoup.\n\n\"God bless you, Miss,\" said he; \"make him touch a drop o' this: he's\ngone since breakfast without food, and it's past one in the morning\nnow.\"\n\nHe softly removed the cover, and Molly took the basin back with her\nto her place at the Squire's side. She did not speak, for she did not\nwell know what to say, or how to present this homely want of nature\nbefore one so rapt in grief. But she put a spoonful to his lips, and\ntouched them with the savoury food, as if he had been a sick child,\nand she the nurse; and instinctively he took down the first spoonful\nof the soup. But in a minute he said, with a sort of cry, and almost\noverturning the basin Molly held, by his passionate gesture as he\npointed to the bed,--\n\n\"He will never eat again--never.\"\n\nThen he threw himself across the corpse, and wept in such a terrible\nmanner that Molly trembled lest he also should die--should break his\nheart there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of her\ntears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon, looking\nthrough the unclosed window, with passionless stare. Her father stood\nby them both before either of them was aware.\n\n\"Go downstairs, Molly,\" said he gravely; but he stroked her head\ntenderly as she rose. \"Go into the dining-room.\" Now she felt the\nreaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear as she\nwent along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she should\nmeet Osborne, and hear it all explained; how he came to die,--what he\nnow felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to the\ndining-room,--the last few steps with a rush of terror,--senseless\nterror of what might be behind her; and there she found supper laid\nout, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about decanting some\nwine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet place, and weep away\nher over-excitement; but she could hardly do so there. She only felt\nvery much tired, and to care for nothing in this world any more. But\nvividness of life came back when she found Robinson holding a glass\nto her lips as she sat in the great leather easy-chair, to which she\nhad gone instinctively as to a place of rest.\n\n\"Drink, Miss. It's good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was to\neat a bit. Says he, 'My daughter may have to stay here, Mr. Robinson,\nand she's young for the work. Persuade her to eat something, or\nshe'll break down utterly.' Those was his very words.\"\n\nMolly did not say anything. She had not energy enough for resistance.\nShe drank and she ate at the old servant's bidding; and then she\nasked him to leave her alone, and went back to her easy-chair and let\nherself cry, and so ease her heart.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII.\n\nSQUIRE HAMLEY'S SORROW.\n\n\nIt seemed very long before Mr. Gibson came down. He went and stood\nwith his back to the empty fireplace, and did not speak for a minute\nor two.\n\n\"He's gone to bed,\" said he at length. \"Robinson and I have got him\nthere. But just as I was leaving him he called me back and asked\nme to let you stop. I'm sure I don't know--but one doesn't like to\nrefuse at such a time.\"\n\n\"I wish to stay,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Do you? There's a good girl. But how will you manage?\"\n\n\"Oh, never mind that. I can manage. Papa,\"--she paused--\"what did\nOsborne die of?\" She asked the question in a low, awe-stricken voice.\n\n\"Something wrong about the heart. You wouldn't understand if I told\nyou. I apprehended it for some time; but it's better not to talk\nof such things at home. When I saw him on Thursday week, he seemed\nbetter than I've seen him for a long time. I told Dr. Nicholls so.\nBut one never can calculate in these complaints.\"\n\n\"You saw him on Thursday week? Why, you never mentioned it!\" said\nMolly.\n\n\"No. I don't talk of my patients at home. Besides, I didn't want him\nto consider me as his doctor, but as a friend. Any alarm about his\nown health would only have hastened the catastrophe.\"\n\n\"Then didn't he know that he was ill--ill of a dangerous complaint,\nI mean: one that might end as it has done?\"\n\n\"No; certainly not. He would only have been watching his\nsymptoms--accelerating matters, in fact.\"\n\n\"Oh, papa!\" said Molly, shocked.\n\n\"I've no time to go into the question,\" Mr. Gibson continued. \"And\nuntil you know what has to be said on both sides and in every\ninstance, you are not qualified to judge. We must keep our attention\non the duties in hand now. You sleep here for the remainder of the\nnight, which is more than half-gone already?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Promise me to go to bed just as usual. You may not think it, but\nmost likely you'll go to sleep at once. People do at your age.\"\n\n\"Papa, I think I ought to tell you something. I know a great secret\nof Osborne's, which I promised solemnly not to tell; but the last\ntime I saw him I think he must have been afraid of something like\nthis.\" A fit of sobbing came upon her, which her father was afraid\nwould end in hysterics. But suddenly she mastered herself, and looked\nup into his anxious face, and smiled to reassure him.\n\n\"I could not help it, papa!\"\n\n\"No. I know. Go on with what you were saying. You ought to be in bed;\nbut if you've a secret on your mind you won't sleep.\"\n\n\"Osborne was married,\" said she, fixing her eyes on her father. \"That\nis the secret.\"\n\n\"Married! Nonsense. What makes you think so?\"\n\n\"He told me. That's to say, I was in the library--was reading there,\nsome time ago; and Roger came and spoke to Osborne about his wife.\nRoger did not see me, but Osborne did. They made me promise secrecy.\nI don't think I did wrong.\"\n\n\"Don't worry yourself about right or wrong just now; tell me more\nabout it, at once.\"\n\n\"I knew no more till six months ago--last November, when you went up\nto Lady Cumnor. Then he called, and gave me his wife's address, but\nstill under promise of secrecy; and, except those two times, and once\nwhen Roger just alluded to it, I have never heard any one mention the\nsubject. I think he would have told me more that last time, only Miss\nPhoebe came in.\"\n\n\"Where is this wife of his?\"\n\n\"Down in the south; near Winchester, I think. He said she was a\nFrenchwoman and a Roman Catholic; and I think he said she was a\nservant,\" added Molly.\n\n\"Phew!\" Her father made a long whistle of dismay.\n\n\"And,\" continued Molly, \"he spoke of a child. Now you know as much as\nI do, papa, except the address. I have it written down safe at home.\"\n\nForgetting, apparently, what time of night it was, Mr. Gibson sate\ndown, stretched out his legs before him, put his hands in his\npockets, and began to think. Molly sate still without speaking, too\ntired to do more than wait.\n\n\"Well!\" said he at last, jumping up, \"nothing can be done to-night;\nby to-morrow morning, perhaps, I may find out. Poor little pale\nface!\"--taking it between both his hands and kissing it; \"poor,\nsweet, little pale face!\" Then he rang the bell, and told Robinson to\nsend some maid-servant to take Miss Gibson to her room.\n\n\"He won't be up early,\" said he, in parting. \"The shock has lowered\nhim too much to be energetic. Send breakfast up to him in his own\nroom. I'll be here again before ten.\"\n\nLate as it was before he left, he kept his word.\n\n\"Now, Molly,\" he said, \"you and I must tell him the truth between us.\nI don't know how he will take it; it may comfort him, but I've very\nlittle hope: either way, he ought to know it at once.\"\n\n\"Robinson says he has gone into the room again, and he is afraid he\nhas locked the door on the inside.\"\n\n\"Never mind. I shall ring the bell, and send up Robinson to say that\nI am here, and wish to speak to him.\"\n\nThe message returned was, \"The Squire's kind love, and could not see\nMr. Gibson just then.\" Robinson added, \"It was a long time before\nhe'd answer at all, sir.\"\n\n\"Go up again, and tell him I can wait his convenience. Now that's a\nlie,\" Mr. Gibson said, turning round to Molly as soon as Robinson had\nleft the room. \"I ought to be far enough away at twelve; but, if I'm\nnot much mistaken, the innate habits of a gentleman will make him\nuneasy at the idea of keeping me waiting his pleasure, and will do\nmore to bring him out of that room into this than any entreaties or\nreasoning.\" Mr. Gibson was growing impatient though, before they\nheard the Squire's footstep on the stairs; he was evidently coming\nslowly and unwillingly. He came in almost like one blind, groping\nalong, and taking hold of chair or table for support or guidance till\nhe reached Mr. Gibson. He did not speak when he held the doctor by\nthe hand; he only hung down his head, and kept on a feeble shaking of\nwelcome.\n\n\"I'm brought very low, sir. I suppose it's God's doing; but it comes\nhard upon me. He was my firstborn child.\" He said this almost as if\nspeaking to a stranger, and informing him of facts of which he was\nignorant.\n\n\"Here's Molly,\" said Mr. Gibson, choking a little himself, and\npushing her forwards.\n\n\"I beg your pardon; I did not see you at first. My mind is a good\ndeal occupied just now.\" He sate heavily down, and then seemed almost\nto forget they were there. Molly wondered what was to come next.\nSuddenly her father spoke,--\n\n\"Where's Roger?\" said he. \"Is he not likely to be soon at the Cape?\"\nHe got up and looked at the directions of one or two unopened letters\nbrought by that morning's post; among them was one in Cynthia's\nhandwriting. Both Molly and he saw it at the same time. How long it\nwas since yesterday! But the Squire took no notice of their\nproceedings or their looks.\n\n\"You will be glad to have Roger at home as soon as may be, I think,\nsir. Some months must elapse first; but I'm sure he will return as\nspeedily as possible.\"\n\nThe Squire said something in a very low voice. Both father and\ndaughter strained their ears to hear what it was. They both believed\nit to be, \"Roger isn't Osborne!\" And Mr. Gibson spoke on that belief.\nHe spoke more quietly than Molly had ever heard him do before.\n\n\"No! we know that. I wish that anything that Roger could do, or that\nI could do, or that any one could do, would comfort you; but it is\npast human comfort.\"\n\n\"I do try to say, God's will be done, sir,\" said the Squire, looking\nup at Mr. Gibson for the first time, and speaking with more life in\nhis voice; \"but it's harder to be resigned than happy people think.\"\nThey were all silent for a while. The Squire himself was the first\nto speak again,--\"He was my first child, sir; my eldest son. And\nof late years we weren't\"--his voice broke down, but he controlled\nhimself--\"we weren't quite as good friends as could be wished; and\nI'm not sure--not sure that he knew how I loved him.\" And now he\ncried aloud with an exceeding bitter cry.\n\n\"Better so!\" whispered Mr. Gibson to Molly. \"When he's a little\ncalmer, don't be afraid; tell him all you know, exactly as it\nhappened.\"\n\nMolly began. Her voice sounded high and unnatural to herself, as if\nsome one else was speaking, but she made her words clear. The Squire\ndid not attempt to listen, at first, at any rate.\n\n\"One day when I was here, at the time of Mrs. Hamley's last illness\"\n(the Squire here checked his convulsive breathing), \"I was in the\nlibrary, and Osborne came in. He said he had only come in for a book,\nand that I was not to mind him, so I went on reading. Presently,\nRoger came along the flagged garden-path just outside the window\n(which was open). He did not see me in the corner where I was\nsitting, and said to Osborne, 'Here's a letter from your wife!'\"\n\nNow the Squire was all attention; for the first time his tear-swollen\neyes met the eyes of another, and he looked at Molly with searching\nanxiety, as he repeated, \"His wife! Osborne married!\" Molly went on:\n\n\"Osborne was angry with Roger for speaking out before me, and they\nmade me promise never to mention it to any one; or to allude to it to\neither of them again. I never named it to papa till last night.\"\n\n\"Go on,\" said Mr. Gibson. \"Tell the Squire about Osborne's call--what\nyou told me!\" Still the Squire hung on her lips, listening with open\nmouth and eyes.\n\n\"Some months ago Osborne called. He was not well, and wanted to see\npapa. Papa was away, and I was alone. I don't exactly remember how\nit came about, but he spoke to me of his wife for the first and only\ntime since the affair in the library.\" She looked at her father, as\nif questioning him as to the desirableness of telling the few further\nparticulars that she knew. The Squire's mouth was dry and stiff, but\nhe tried to say, \"Tell me all,--everything.\" And Molly understood the\nhalf-formed words.\n\n\"He said his wife was a good woman, and that he loved her dearly;\nbut she was a French Roman Catholic, and a\"--another glance at her\nfather--\"she had been a servant once. That was all; except that I\nhave her address at home. He wrote it down and gave it me.\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" moaned the Squire. \"It's all over now. All over. All\npast and gone. We'll not blame him,--no; but I wish he'd ha' told\nme; he and I to live together with such a secret in one of us. It's\nno wonder to me now--nothing can be a wonder again, for one never\ncan tell what's in a man's heart. Married so long! and we sitting\ntogether at meals--and living together. Why, I told him everything!\nToo much, may be, for I showed him all my passions and ill-tempers!\nMarried so long! Oh, Osborne, Osborne, you should have told me!\"\n\n\"Yes, he should!\" said Mr. Gibson. \"But I daresay he knew how much\nyou would dislike such a choice as he had made. But he should have\ntold you!\"\n\n\"You know nothing about it, sir,\" said the Squire sharply. \"You don't\nknow the terms we were on. Not hearty or confidential. I was cross\nto him many a time; angry with him for being dull, poor lad--and he\nwith all this weight on his mind. I won't have people interfering and\njudging between me and my sons. And Roger too! He could know it all,\nand keep it from me!\"\n\n\"Osborne evidently had bound him down to secrecy, just as he bound\nme,\" said Molly; \"Roger could not help himself.\"\n\n\"Osborne was such a fellow for persuading people, and winning them\nover,\" said the Squire, dreamily. \"I remember--but what's the use of\nremembering? It's all over, and Osborne's dead without opening his\nheart to me. I could have been tender to him, I could. But he'll\nnever know it now!\"\n\n\"But we can guess what wish he had strongest in his mind at the last,\nfrom what we do know of his life,\" said Mr. Gibson.\n\n\"What, sir?\" said the Squire, with sharp suspicion of what was\ncoming.\n\n\"His wife must have been his last thought, must she not?\"\n\n\"How do I know she was his wife? Do you think he'd go and marry a\nFrench baggage of a servant? It may be all a tale trumped up.\"\n\n\"Stop, Squire. I don't care to defend my daughter's truth or\naccuracy. But with the dead man's body lying upstairs--his soul with\nGod--think twice before you say more hasty words, impugning his\ncharacter; if she was not his wife, what was she?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon. I hardly know what I'm saying. Did I accuse\nOsborne? Oh, my lad, my lad--thou might have trusted thy old dad! He\nused to call me his 'old dad' when he was a little chap not bigger\nthan this,\" indicating a certain height with his hand. \"I never meant\nto say he was not--not what one would wish to think him now--his soul\nwith God, as you say very justly--for I'm sure it is there--\"\n\n\"Well! but, Squire,\" said Mr. Gibson, trying to check the other's\nrambling, \"to return to his wife--\"\n\n\"And the child,\" whispered Molly to her father. Low as the whisper\nwas, it struck on the Squire's ear.\n\n\"What?\" said he, turning round to her suddenly, \"--child? You never\nnamed that? Is there a child? Husband and father, and I never\nknew! God bless Osborne's child! I say, God bless it!\" He stood up\nreverently, and the other two instinctively rose. He closed his hands\nas if in momentary prayer. Then exhausted he sate down again, and put\nout his hand to Molly.\n\n\"You're a good girl. Thank you.--Tell me what I ought to do, and I'll\ndo it.\" This to Mr. Gibson.\n\n\"I'm almost as much puzzled as you are, Squire,\" replied he. \"I fully\nbelieve the whole story; but I think there must be some written\nconfirmation of it, which perhaps ought to be found at once, before\nwe act. Most probably this is to be discovered among Osborne's\npapers. Will you look over them at once? Molly shall return with me,\nand find the address that Osborne gave her, while you are busy--\"\n\n\"She'll come back again?\" said the Squire eagerly. \"You--she won't\nleave me to myself?\"\n\n\"No! She shall come back this evening. I'll manage to send her\nsomehow. But she has no clothes but the habit she came in, and I want\nmy horse that she rode away upon.\"\n\n\"Take the carriage,\" said the Squire. \"Take anything. I'll give\norders. You'll come back again, too?\"\n\n\"No! I'm afraid not, to-day. I'll come to-morrow, early. Molly shall\nreturn this evening, whenever it suits you to send for her.\"\n\n\"This afternoon; the carriage shall be at your house at three. I dare\nnot look at Osborne's--at the papers without one of you with me; and\nyet I shall never rest till I know more.\"\n\n\"I'll send the desk in by Robinson before I leave. And--can you give\nme some lunch before I go?\"\n\nLittle by little he led the Squire to eat a morsel or so of food;\nand so, strengthening him physically, and encouraging him mentally,\nMr. Gibson hoped that he would begin his researches during Molly's\nabsence.\n\nThere was something touching in the Squire's wistful looks after\nMolly as she moved about. A stranger might have imagined her to\nbe his daughter instead of Mr. Gibson's. The meek, broken-down,\nconsiderate ways of the bereaved father never showed themselves more\nstrongly than when he called them back to his chair, out of which\nhe seemed too languid to rise, and said, as if by an after-thought:\n\"Give my love to Miss Kirkpatrick; tell her I look upon her as quite\none of the family. I shall be glad to see her after--after the\nfuneral. I don't think I can before.\"\n\n\"He knows nothing of Cynthia's resolution to give up Roger,\" said Mr.\nGibson as they rode away. \"I had a long talk with her last night, but\nshe was as resolute as ever. From what your mamma tells me, there is\na third lover in London, whom she's already refused. I'm thankful\nthat you've no lover at all, Molly, unless that abortive attempt of\nMr. Coxe's at an offer, long ago, can be called a lover.\"\n\n\"I never heard of it, papa!\" said Molly.\n\n\"Oh, no; I forgot. What a fool I was! Why, don't you remember the\nhurry I was in to get you off to Hamley Hall, the very first time you\never went? It was all because I got hold of a desperate love-letter\nfrom Coxe, addressed to you.\"\n\nBut Molly was too tired to be amused, or even interested. She could\nnot get over the sight of the straight body covered with a sheet,\nwhich yet let the outlines be seen,--all that remained of Osborne.\nHer father had trusted too much to the motion of the ride, and the\nchange of scene from the darkened house. He saw his mistake.\n\n\"Some one must write to Mrs. Osborne Hamley,\" said he. \"I believe her\nto have a legal right to the name; but whether or no, she must be\ntold that the father of her child is dead. Shall you do it, or I?\"\n\n\"Oh, you, please, papa!\"\n\n\"I will, if you wish. But she may have heard of you as a friend of\nher dead husband's; while of me--a mere country doctor--it's very\nprobable she has never heard the name.\"\n\n\"If I ought, I will do it.\" Mr. Gibson did not like this ready\nacquiescence, given in so few words, too.\n\n\"There's Hollingford church-spire,\" said she presently, as they drew\nnear the town, and caught a glimpse of the church through the trees.\n\"I think I never wish to go out of sight of it again.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said he. \"Why, you've all your travelling to do yet;\nand if these new-fangled railways spread, as they say they will, we\nshall all be spinning about the world; 'sitting on tea-kettles,' as\nPhoebe Browning calls it. Miss Browning wrote such a capital letter\nof advice to Miss Hornblower. I heard of it at the Millers'. Miss\nHornblower was going to travel by railroad for the first time; and\nDorothy was very anxious, and sent her directions for her conduct;\none piece of advice was not to sit on the boiler.\"\n\nMolly laughed a little, as she was expected to do. \"Here we are at\nhome, at last.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson gave Molly a warm welcome. For one thing, Cynthia was\nin disgrace; for another, Molly came from the centre of news; for a\nthird, Mrs. Gibson was really fond of the girl, in her way, and sorry\nto see her pale heavy looks.\n\n\"To think of it all being so sudden at last! Not but what I always\nexpected it! And so provoking! Just when Cynthia had given up Roger!\nIf she had only waited a day! What does the Squire say to it all?\"\n\n\"He is beaten down with grief,\" replied Molly.\n\n\"Indeed! I should not have fancied he had liked the engagement so\nmuch.\"\n\n\"What engagement?\"\n\n\"Why, Roger to Cynthia, to be sure. I asked you how the Squire took\nher letter, announcing the breaking of it off?\"\n\n\"Oh--I made a mistake. He hasn't opened his letters to-day. I saw\nCynthia's among them.\"\n\n\"Now that I call positive disrespect.\"\n\n\"I don't know. He did not mean it for such. Where is Cynthia?\"\n\n\"Gone out into the meadow-garden. She'll be in directly. I wanted\nher to do some errands for me, but she flatly refused to go into the\ntown. I am afraid she mismanages her affairs badly. But she won't\nallow me to interfere. I hate to look at such things in a mercenary\nspirit, but it is provoking to see her throw over two such good\nmatches. First Mr. Henderson, and now Roger Hamley. When does the\nSquire expect Roger? Does he think he will come back sooner for poor\ndear Osborne's death?\"\n\n\"I don't know. He hardly seems to think of anything but Osborne. He\nappears to me to have almost forgotten every one else. But perhaps\nthe news of Osborne's being married, and of the child, may rouse him\nup.\"\n\nMolly had no doubt that Osborne was really and truly married, nor\nhad she any idea that her father had never breathed the facts of\nwhich she had told him on the previous night, to his wife or Cynthia.\nBut Mr. Gibson had been slightly dubious of the full legality of\nthe marriage, and had not felt inclined to speak of it to his wife\nuntil that had been ascertained one way or another. So Mrs. Gibson\nexclaimed, \"What _do_ you mean, child? Married! Osborne married! Who\nsays so?\"\n\n\"Oh, dear! I suppose I ought not to have named it. I'm very stupid\nto-day. Yes! Osborne has been married a long time; but the Squire did\nnot know of it until this morning. I think it has done him good. But\nI don't know.\"\n\n\"Who is the lady? Why, I call it a shame to go about as a single man,\nand be married all the time! If there is one thing that revolts me,\nit is duplicity. Who is the lady? Do tell me all you know about it,\nthere's a dear.\"\n\n\"She is French, and a Roman Catholic,\" said Molly.\n\n\"French! They are such beguiling women; and he was so much abroad!\nYou said there was a child,--is it a boy or a girl?\"\n\n\"I did not hear. I did not ask.\"\n\nMolly did not think it necessary to do more than answer questions;\nindeed, she was vexed enough to have told anything of what her father\nevidently considered it desirable to keep secret. Just then Cynthia\ncame wandering into the room with a careless, hopeless look in her\nface, which Molly noticed at once. She had not heard of Molly's\narrival, and had no idea that she was returned until she saw her\nsitting there.\n\n\"Molly, darling! Is that you? You're as welcome as the flowers in\nMay, though you've not been gone twenty-four hours. But the house\nisn't the same when you are away!\"\n\n\"And she brings us such news too!\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"I'm really\nalmost glad you wrote to the Squire yesterday, for if you had waited\ntill to-day--I thought you were in too great a hurry at the time--he\nmight have thought you had some interested reason for giving up your\nengagement. Osborne Hamley was married all this time unknown to\neverybody, and has got a child too.\"\n\n\"Osborne married!\" exclaimed Cynthia. \"If ever a man looked a\nbachelor, he did. Poor Osborne! with his fair delicate elegance,--he\nlooked so young and boyish!\"\n\n\"Yes! it was a great piece of deceit, and I can't easily forgive\nhim for it. Only think! If he had paid either of you any particular\nattention, and you had fallen in love with him! Why, he might have\nbroken your heart, or Molly's either. I can't forgive him, even\nthough he is dead, poor fellow!\"\n\n\"Well, as he never did pay either of us any particular attention, and\nas we neither of us did fall in love with him, I think I only feel\nsorry that he had all the trouble and worry of concealment.\" Cynthia\nspoke with a pretty keen recollection of how much trouble and worry\nher concealment had cost her.\n\n\"And now of course it is a son, and will be the heir, and Roger will\njust be as poorly off as ever. I hope you'll take care and let the\nSquire know Cynthia was quite ignorant of these new facts that have\ncome out when she wrote those letters, Molly? I should not like a\nsuspicion of worldliness to rest upon any one with whom I had any\nconcern.\"\n\n\"He hasn't read Cynthia's letter yet. Oh, do let me bring it home\nunopened,\" said Molly. \"Send another letter to Roger--now--at once;\nit will reach him at the same time; he will get both when he arrives\nat the Cape, and make him understand which is the last--the real one.\nThink! he will hear of Osborne's death at the same time--two such sad\nthings! Do, Cynthia!\"\n\n\"No, my dear,\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"I could not allow that, even if\nCynthia felt inclined for it. Asking to be re-engaged to him! At\nany rate, she must wait now until he proposes again, and we see how\nthings turn out.\"\n\nBut Molly kept her pleading eyes fixed on Cynthia.\n\n\"No!\" said Cynthia firmly, but not without consideration. \"It cannot\nbe. I've felt more content this last night than I've done for weeks\npast. I'm glad to be free. I dreaded Roger's goodness, and learning,\nand all that. It was not in my way, and I don't believe I should\nhave ever married him, even without knowing of all these ill-natured\nstories that are circulating about me, and which he would hear of,\nand expect me to explain, and be sorry for, and penitent and humble.\nI know he could not have made me happy, and I don't believe he would\nhave been happy with me. It must stay as it is. I would rather be a\ngoverness than married to him. I should get weary of him every day of\nmy life.\"\n\n\"Weary of Roger!\" said Molly to herself. \"It is best as it is, I\nsee,\" she answered aloud. \"Only I'm very sorry for him, very. He did\nlove you so. You will never get any one to love you like him!\"\n\n\"Very well. I must take my chance. And too much love is rather\noppressive to me, I believe. I like a great deal, widely spread\nabout; not all confined to one individual lover.\"\n\n\"I don't believe you,\" said Molly. \"But don't let us talk any more\nabout it. It is best as it is. I thought--I almost felt sure you\nwould be sorry this morning. But we will leave it alone now.\" She\nsate silently looking out of the window, her heart sorely stirred,\nshe scarcely knew how or why. But she could not have spoken. Most\nlikely she would have begun to cry if she had spoken. Cynthia stole\nsoftly up to her after a while.\n\n\"You are vexed with me, Molly,\" she began in a low voice. But Molly\nturned sharply round:\n\n\"I! I have no business at all in the affair. It is for you to judge.\nDo what you think right. I believe you have done right. Only I don't\nwant to discuss it, and paw it over with talk. I'm very much tired,\ndear\"--gently now she spoke--\"and I hardly know what I say. If I\nspeak crossly, don't mind it.\" Cynthia did not reply at once. Then\nshe said,--\n\n\"Do you think I might go with you, and help you? I might have done\nyesterday; and you say he hasn't opened my letter, so he has not\nheard as yet. And I was always fond of poor Osborne, in my way, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"I cannot tell; I have no right to say,\" replied Molly, scarcely\nunderstanding Cynthia's motives, which, after all, were only impulses\nin this case. \"Papa would be able to judge; I think, perhaps, you had\nbetter not. But don't go by my opinion; I can only tell what I should\nwish to do in your place.\"\n\n\"It was as much for your sake as any one's, Molly,\" said Cynthia.\n\n\"Oh, then, don't! I am tired to-day with sitting up; but to-morrow\nI shall be all right; and I should not like it, if, for my sake, you\ncame into the house at so solemn a time.\"\n\n\"Very well!\" said Cynthia, half-glad that her impulsive offer was\ndeclined; for, as she said, thinking to herself, \"It would have\nbeen awkward after all.\" So Molly went back in the carriage alone,\nwondering how she should find the Squire; wondering what discoveries\nhe had made among Osborne's papers, and at what conviction he would\nhave arrived.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII.\n\nUNLOOKED-FOR ARRIVALS.\n\n\nRobinson opened the door for Molly almost before the carriage had\nfairly drawn up at the Hall, and told her that the Squire had been\nvery anxious for her return, and had more than once sent him to\nan upstairs window, from which a glimpse of the hill-road between\nHollingford and Hamley could be caught, to know if the carriage was\nnot yet in sight. Molly went into the drawing-room. The Squire was\nstanding in the middle of the floor awaiting her--in fact, longing to\ngo out and meet her, but restrained by a feeling of solemn etiquette,\nwhich prevented his moving about as usual in that house of mourning.\nHe held a paper in his hands, which were trembling with excitement\nand emotion; and four or five open letters were strewed on a table\nnear him.\n\n\"It's all true,\" he began; \"she's his wife, and he's her husband--was\nher husband--that's the word for it--was! Poor lad! poor lad! it's\ncost him a deal. Pray God, it wasn't my fault. Read this, my dear.\nIt's a certificate. It's all regular--Osborne Hamley to Marie-Aimée\nScherer,--parish-church and all, and witnessed. Oh, dear!\" He sate\ndown in the nearest chair and groaned. Molly took a seat by him, and\nread the legal paper, the perusal of which was not needed to convince\nher of the fact of the marriage. She held it in her hand after she\nhad finished reading it, waiting for the Squire's next coherent\nwords; for he kept talking to himself in broken sentences. \"Ay,\nay! that comes o' temper, and crabbedness. She was the only one as\ncould,--and I've been worse since she was gone. Worse! worse! and\nsee what it has come to! He was afraid of me--ay--afraid. That's the\ntruth of it--afraid. And it made him keep all to himself, and care\nkilled him. They may call it heart-disease--O my lad, my lad, I know\nbetter now; but it's too late--that's the sting of it--too late, too\nlate!\" He covered his face, and moved himself backward and forward\ntill Molly could bear it no longer.\n\n\"There are some letters,\" said she: \"may I read any of them?\" At\nanother time she would not have asked; but she was driven to it now\nby her impatience of the speechless grief of the old man.\n\n\"Ay, read 'em, read 'em,\" said he. \"Maybe you can. I can only pick\nout a word here and there. I put 'em there for you to look at; and\ntell me what is in 'em.\"\n\nMolly's knowledge of written French of the present day was not so\ngreat as her knowledge of the French of the _Mémoires de Sully_, and\nneither the spelling nor the writing of the letters was of the best;\nbut she managed to translate into good enough colloquial English some\ninnocent sentences of love, and submission to Osborne's will--as if\nhis judgment was infallible,--and of faith in his purposes,--little\nsentences in \"little language\" that went home to the Squire's heart.\nPerhaps if Molly had read French more easily she might not have\ntranslated them into such touching, homely, broken words. Here and\nthere, there were expressions in English; these the hungry-hearted\nSquire had read while waiting for Molly's return. Every time she\nstopped, he said, \"Go on.\" He kept his face shaded, and only repeated\nthose two words at every pause. She got up to find some more of\nAimée's letters. In examining the papers, she came upon one in\nparticular. \"Have you seen this, sir? This certificate of baptism\"\n(reading aloud) \"of Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley, born June 21,\n183--, child of Osborne Hamley and Marie-Aimée his wife--\"\n\n\"Give it me,\" said the Squire, his voice breaking now, and stretching\nforth his eager hand. \"'Roger,' that's me, 'Stephen,' that's my poor\nold father: he died when he was not so old as I am; but I've always\nthought on him as very old. He was main and fond of Osborne, when he\nwas quite a little one. It's good of the lad to have thought on my\nfather Stephen. Ay! that was his name. And Osborne--Osborne Hamley!\nOne Osborne Hamley lies dead on his bed--and t'other--t'other I've\nnever seen, and never heard on till to-day. He must be called\nOsborne, Molly. There is a Roger--there's two for that matter; but\none is a good-for-nothing old man; and there's never an Osborne any\nmore, unless this little thing is called Osborne; we'll have him\nhere, and get a nurse for him; and make his mother comfortable for\nlife in her own country. I'll keep this, Molly. You're a good lass\nfor finding it. Osborne Hamley! And if God will give me grace, he\nshall never hear a cross word from me--never! He shan't be afeard of\nme. Oh, _my_ Osborne, _my_ Osborne\" (he burst out), \"do you know now\nhow bitter and sore is my heart for every hard word as I ever spoke\nto you? Do you know now how I loved you--my boy--my boy?\"\n\nFrom the general tone of the letters, Molly doubted if the mother\nwould consent, so easily as the Squire seemed to expect, to be parted\nfrom her child; the letters were not very wise, perhaps (though of\nthis Molly never thought), but a heart full of love spoke tender\nwords in every line. Still, it was not for Molly to talk of this\ndoubt of hers just then; but rather to dwell on the probable graces\nand charms of the little Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley. She let\nthe Squire exhaust himself in wondering as to the particulars of\nevery event, helping him out in conjectures; and both of them, from\ntheir imperfect knowledge of possibilities, made the most curious,\nfantastic, and improbable guesses at the truth. And so that day\npassed over, and the night came.\n\nThere were not many people who had any claim to be invited to the\nfuneral, and of these Mr. Gibson and the Squire's hereditary man of\nbusiness had taken charge. But when Mr. Gibson came, early on the\nfollowing morning, Molly referred the question to him, which had\nsuggested itself to her mind, though apparently not to the Squire's,\nwhat intimation of her loss should be sent to the widow, living\nsolitary near Winchester, watching and waiting, if not for his coming\nwho lay dead in his distant home, at least for his letters. One from\nher had already come, in her foreign handwriting, to the post-office\nto which all her communications were usually sent, but of course they\nat the Hall knew nothing of this.\n\n\"She must be told,\" said Mr. Gibson, musing.\n\n\"Yes, she must,\" replied his daughter. \"But how?\"\n\n\"A day or two of waiting will do no harm,\" said he, almost as if\nhe was anxious to delay the solution of the problem. \"It will make\nher anxious, poor thing, and all sorts of gloomy possibilities will\nsuggest themselves to her mind--amongst them the truth; it will be a\nkind of preparation.\"\n\n\"For what? Something must be done at last,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Yes; true. Suppose you write, and say he's very ill; write\nto-morrow. I daresay they've indulged themselves in daily postage,\nand then she'll have had three days' silence. You say how you come\nto know all you do about it; I think she ought to know he is very\nill--in great danger, if you like: and you can follow it up next day\nwith the full truth. I wouldn't worry the Squire about it. After the\nfuneral we will have a talk about the child.\"\n\n\"She will never part with it,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Whew! Till I see the woman I can't tell,\" said her father; \"some\nwomen would. It will be well provided for, according to what you say.\nAnd she is a foreigner, and may very likely wish to go back to her\nown people and kindred. There's much to be said on both sides.\"\n\n\"So you always say, papa. But in this case I think you'll find I'm\nright. I judge from her letters; but I think I'm right.\"\n\n\"So you always say, daughter. Time will show. So the child is a\nboy? Mrs. Gibson told me particularly to ask. It will go far to\nreconciling her to Cynthia's dismissal of Roger. But indeed it is\nquite as well for both of them, though of course he will be a long\ntime before he thinks so. They were not suited to each other. Poor\nRoger! It was hard work writing to him yesterday; and who knows what\nmay have become of him! Well, well! one has to get through the world\nsomehow. I'm glad, however, this little lad has turned up to be the\nheir. I shouldn't have liked the property to go to the Irish Hamleys,\nwho are the next heirs, as Osborne once told me. Now write that\nletter, Molly, to the poor little Frenchwoman out yonder. It will\nprepare her for it; and we must think a bit how to spare her the\nshock, for Osborne's sake.\"\n\nThe writing this letter was rather difficult work for Molly, and\nshe tore up two or three copies before she could manage it to her\nsatisfaction; and at last, in despair of ever doing it better, she\nsent it off without re-reading it. The next day was easier; the fact\nof Osborne's death was told briefly and tenderly. But when this\nsecond letter was sent off, Molly's heart began to bleed for the\npoor creature, bereft of her husband, in a foreign land, and he at a\ndistance from her, dead and buried without her ever having had the\nchance of printing his dear features on her memory by one last long\nlingering look. With her thoughts full of the unknown Aimée, Molly\ntalked much about her that day to the Squire. He would listen for\never to any conjecture, however wild, about the grandchild, but\nperpetually winced away from all discourse about \"the Frenchwoman,\"\nas he called her; not unkindly, but to his mind she was simply the\nFrenchwoman--chattering, dark-eyed, demonstrative, and possibly even\nrouged. He would treat her with respect as his son's widow, and\nwould try even not to think upon the female inveiglement in which he\nbelieved. He would make her an allowance to the extent of his duty:\nbut he hoped and trusted he might never be called upon to see her.\nHis solicitor, Gibson, anybody and everybody, should be called upon\nto form a phalanx of defence against that danger.\n\nAnd all this time a little young grey-eyed woman was making her\nway,--not towards him, but towards the dead son, whom as yet she\nbelieved to be her living husband. She knew she was acting in\ndefiance of his expressed wish; but he had never dismayed her with\nany expression of his own fears about his health; and she, bright\nwith life, had never contemplated death coming to fetch away one so\nbeloved. He was ill--very ill, the letter from the strange girl said\nthat; but Aimée had nursed her parents, and knew what illness was.\nThe French doctor had praised her skill and neat-handedness as a\nnurse, and even if she had been the clumsiest of women, was he not\nher husband--her all? And was she not his wife, whose place was by\nhis pillow? So, without even as much reasoning as has been here\ngiven, Aimée made her preparations, swallowing down the tears that\nwould overflow her eyes, and drop into the little trunk she was\npacking so neatly. And by her side, on the ground, sate the child,\nnow nearly two years old; and for him Aimée had always a smile and a\ncheerful word. Her servant loved her and trusted her; and the woman\nwas of an age to have had experience of humankind. Aimée had told\nher that her husband was ill, and the servant had known enough of\nthe household history to be aware that as yet Aimée was not his\nacknowledged wife. But she sympathized with the prompt decision of\nher mistress to go to him directly, wherever he was. Caution comes\nfrom education of one kind or another, and Aimée was not dismayed by\nwarnings; only the woman pleaded hard for the child to be left. \"He\nwas such company,\" she said; \"and he would so tire his mother in her\njourneyings; and maybe his father would be too ill to see him.\" To\nwhich Aimée replied, \"Good company for you, but better for me. A\nwoman is never tired with carrying her own child\" (which was not\ntrue; but there was sufficient truth in it to make it believed by\nboth mistress and servant), \"and if Monsieur could care for anything,\nhe would rejoice to hear the babble of his little son.\" So Aimée\ncaught the evening coach to London at the nearest cross-road, Martha\nstanding by as chaperon and friend to see her off, and handing her\nin the large lusty child, already crowing with delight at the sight\nof the horses. There was a \"lingerie\" shop, kept by a Frenchwoman,\nwhose acquaintance Aimée had made in the days when she was a London\nnursemaid, and thither she betook herself, rather than to an hotel,\nto spend the few night-hours that intervened before the Birmingham\ncoach started at early morning. She slept or watched on a sofa in\nthe parlour, for spare-bed there was none; but Madame Pauline came\nin betimes with a good cup of coffee for the mother, and of \"soupe\nblanche\" for the boy; and they went off again into the wide world,\nonly thinking of, only seeking the \"him,\" who was everything human\nto both. Aimée remembered the sound of the name of the village where\nOsborne had often told her that he alighted from the coach to walk\nhome; and though she could never have spelt the strange uncouth word,\nyet she spoke it with pretty slow distinctness to the guard, asking\nhim in her broken English when they should arrive there? Not till\nfour o'clock. Alas! and what might happen before then! Once with him\nshe would have no fear; she was sure that she could bring him round;\nbut what might not happen before he was in her tender care? She was\na very capable person in many ways, though so childish and innocent\nin others. She made up her mind to the course she should pursue when\nthe coach set her down at Feversham. She asked for a man to carry her\ntrunk, and show her the way to Hamley Hall.\n\n\"Hamley Hall!\" said the innkeeper. \"Eh! there's a deal o' trouble\nthere just now.\"\n\n\"I know, I know,\" said she, hastening off after the wheelbarrow in\nwhich her trunk was going, and breathlessly struggling to keep up\nwith it, her heavy child asleep in her arms. Her pulses beat all over\nher body; she could hardly see out of her eyes. To her, a foreigner,\nthe drawn blinds of the house, when she came in sight of it, had no\nsignificance; she hurried, stumbled on.\n\n\"Back door or front, missus?\" asked the boots from the inn.\n\n\"The most nearest,\" said she. And the front door was \"the most\nnearest.\" Molly was sitting with the Squire in the darkened\ndrawing-room, reading out her translations of Aimée's letters to her\nhusband. The Squire was never weary of hearing them; the very sound\nof Molly's voice soothed and comforted him, it was so sweet and low.\nAnd he pulled her up, much as a child does, if on a second reading of\nthe same letter she substituted one word for another. The house was\nvery still this afternoon,--still as it had been now for several\ndays; every servant in it, however needlessly, moving about on\ntiptoe, speaking below the breath, and shutting doors as softly\nas might be. The nearest noise or stir of active life was that of\nthe rooks in the trees, who were beginning their spring chatter of\nbusiness. Suddenly, through this quiet, there came a ring at the\nfront-door bell that sounded, and went on sounding, through the\nhouse, pulled by an ignorant vigorous hand. Molly stopped reading;\nshe and the Squire looked at each other in surprised dismay. Perhaps\na thought of Roger's sudden (and impossible) return was in the mind\nof each; but neither spoke. They heard Robinson hurrying to answer\nthe unwonted summons. They listened; but they heard no more. There\nwas little more to hear. When the old servant opened the door,\na lady with a child in her arms stood there. She gasped out her\nready-prepared English sentence,--\n\n\"Can I see Mr. Osborne Hamley? He is ill, I know; but I am his wife.\"\n\nRobinson had been aware that there was some mystery, long suspected\nby the servants, and come to light at last to the master,--he had\nguessed that there was a young woman in the case; but when she stood\nthere before him, asking for her dead husband as if he were living,\nany presence of mind Robinson might have had forsook him; he could\nnot tell her the truth,--he could only leave the door open, and say\nto her, \"Wait awhile, I'll come back,\" and betake himself to the\ndrawing-room where Molly was, he knew. He went up to her in a flutter\nand a hurry, and whispered something to her which turned her white\nwith dismay.\n\n\"What is it? What is it?\" said the Squire, trembling with excitement.\n\"Don't keep it from me. I can bear it. Roger--\"\n\nThey both thought he was going to faint; he had risen up and come\nclose to Molly; suspense would be worse than anything.\n\n\"Mrs. Osborne Hamley is here,\" said Molly. \"I wrote to tell her her\nhusband was very ill, and she has come.\"\n\n\"She does not know what has happened, seemingly,\" said Robinson.\n\n\"I can't see her--I can't see her,\" said the Squire, shrinking away\ninto a corner. \"You will go, Molly, won't you? You'll go.\"\n\nMolly stood for a moment or two, irresolute. She, too, shrank from\nthe interview. Robinson put in his word: \"She looks but a weakly\nthing, and has carried a big baby, choose how far, I didn't stop to\nask.\"\n\nAt this instant the door softly opened, and right into the midst of\nthem came the little figure in grey, looking ready to fall with the\nweight of her child.\n\n\"You are Molly,\" said she, not seeing the Squire at once. \"The lady\nwho wrote the letter; he spoke of you sometimes. You will let me go\nto him.\"\n\nMolly did not answer, except that at such moments the eyes speak\nsolemnly and comprehensively. Aimée read their meaning. All she said\nwas,--\"He is not--oh, my husband--my husband!\" Her arms relaxed, her\nfigure swayed, the child screamed and held out his arms for help.\nThat help was given him by his grandfather, just before Aimée fell\nsenseless on the floor.\n\n\"Maman, maman!\" cried the little fellow, now striving and fighting to\nget back to her, where she lay; he fought so lustily that the Squire\nhad to put him down, and he crawled to the poor inanimate body,\nbehind which sat Molly, holding the head; whilst Robinson rushed away\nfor water, wine, and more womankind.\n\n\n[Illustration: \"MAMAN, MAMAN!\"]\n\n\n\"Poor thing, poor thing!\" said the Squire, bending over her, and\ncrying afresh over her suffering. \"She is but young, Molly, and she\nmust ha' loved him dearly.\"\n\n\"To be sure!\" said Molly, quickly. She was untying the bonnet, and\ntaking off the worn, but neatly mended gloves; there was the soft\nluxuriant black hair, shading the pale, innocent face,--the little\nnotable-looking brown hands, with the wedding-ring for sole ornament.\nThe child clustered his fingers round one of hers, and nestled up\nagainst her with his plaintive cry, getting more and more into a\nburst of wailing: \"Maman, maman!\" At the growing acuteness of his\nimploring, her hand moved, her lips quivered, consciousness came\npartially back. She did not open her eyes, but great heavy tears\nstole out from beneath her eyelashes. Molly held her head against\nher own breast; and they tried to give her wine,--which she shrank\nfrom--water, which she did not reject; that was all. At last she\ntried to speak. \"Take me away,\" she said, \"into the dark. Leave me\nalone.\"\n\nSo Molly and the woman lifted her up and carried her away, and laid\nher on the bed, in the best bed-chamber in the house, and darkened\nthe already shaded light. She was like an unconscious corpse herself,\nin that she offered neither assistance nor resistance to all that\nthey were doing. But just before Molly was leaving the room to take\nup her watch outside the door, she felt rather than heard that Aimée\nspoke to her.\n\n\"Food--bread and milk for baby.\" But when they brought her food\nherself, she only shrank away and turned her face to the wall without\na word. In the hurry, the child had been left with Robinson and\nthe Squire. For some unknown, but most fortunate reason, he took a\ndislike to Robinson's red face and hoarse voice, and showed a most\ndecided preference for his grandfather. When Molly came down she\nfound the Squire feeding the child, with more of peace upon his face\nthan there had been for all these days. The boy was every now and\nthen leaving off taking his bread and milk to show his dislike to\nRobinson by word and gesture: a proceeding which only amused the old\nservant, while it highly delighted the more favoured Squire.\n\n\"She is lying very still, but she will neither speak nor eat. I don't\neven think she is crying,\" said Molly, volunteering this account, for\nthe Squire was for the moment too much absorbed in his grandson to\nask many questions.\n\nRobinson put in his word: \"Dick Hayward, he's Boots at the Hamley\nArms, says the coach she come by started at five this morning from\nLondon, and the passengers said she'd been crying a deal on the road,\nwhen she thought folks were not noticing; and she never came in to\nmeals with the rest, but stopped feeding her child.\"\n\n\"She'll be tired out; we must let her rest,\" said the Squire. \"And I\ndo believe this little chap is going to sleep in my arms. God bless\nhim.\"\n\nBut Molly stole out, and sent off a lad to Hollingford with a note to\nher father. Her heart had warmed towards the poor stranger, and she\nfelt uncertain as to what ought to be the course pursued in her case.\n\nShe went up from time to time to look at the girl, scarce older than\nherself, who lay there with her eyes open, but as motionless as\ndeath. She softly covered her over, and let her feel the sympathetic\npresence from time to time; and that was all she was allowed to do.\nThe Squire was curiously absorbed in the child, but Molly's supreme\ntenderness was for the mother. Not but what she admired the sturdy,\ngallant, healthy little fellow, whose every limb, and square inch of\nclothing, showed the tender and thrifty care that had been taken of\nhim. By-and-by the Squire said in a whisper,--\n\n\"She's not like a Frenchwoman, is she, Molly?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I don't know what Frenchwomen are like. People say\nCynthia is French.\"\n\n\"And she didn't look like a servant? We won't speak of Cynthia since\nshe's served my Roger so. Why, I began to think, as soon as I could\nthink after _that_, how I would make Roger and her happy, and have\nthem married at once; and then came that letter! I never wanted her\nfor a daughter-in-law, not I. But he did, it seems; and he wasn't one\nfor wanting many things for himself. But it's all over now; only we\nwon't talk of her; and maybe, as you say, she was more French than\nEnglish. This poor thing looks like a gentlewoman, I think. I hope\nshe's got friends who'll take care of her,--she can't be above\ntwenty. I thought she must be older than my poor lad!\"\n\n\"She's a gentle, pretty creature,\" said Molly. \"But--but I sometimes\nthink it has killed her; she lies like one dead.\" And Molly could not\nkeep from crying softly at the thought.\n\n\"Nay, nay!\" said the Squire. \"It's not so easy to break one's heart.\nSometimes I've wished it were. But one has to go on living--'all\nthe appointed days,' as it says in the Bible. But we'll do our best\nfor her. We'll not think of letting her go away till she's fit to\ntravel.\"\n\nMolly wondered in her heart about this going away, on which the\nSquire seemed fully resolved. She was sure that he intended to keep\nthe child; perhaps he had a legal right to do so;--but would the\nmother ever part from it? Her father, however, would solve the\ndifficulty,--her father, whom she always looked to as so clear-seeing\nand experienced. She watched and waited for his coming. The February\nevening drew on; the child lay asleep in the Squire's arms till his\ngrandfather grew tired, and laid him down on the sofa: the large\nsquare-cornered yellow sofa upon which Mrs. Hamley used to sit,\nsupported by pillows in a half-reclining position. Since her time it\nhad been placed against the wall, and had served merely as a piece\nof furniture to fill up the room. But once again a human figure was\nlying upon it; a little human creature, like a cherub in some old\nItalian picture. The Squire remembered his wife as he put the child\ndown. He thought of her as he said to Molly,--\n\n\"How pleased she would have been!\" But Molly thought of the poor\nyoung widow upstairs. Aimée was her \"she\" at the first moment.\nPresently,--but it seemed a long long time first,--she heard the\nquick prompt sounds which told of her father's arrival. In he\ncame--to the room as yet only lighted by the fitful blaze of the\nfire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV.\n\nMOLLY GIBSON'S WORTH IS DISCOVERED.\n\n\nMr. Gibson came in rubbing his hands after his frosty ride. Molly\njudged from the look in his eye that he had been fully informed of\nthe present state of things at the Hall by some one. But he simply\nwent up to and greeted the Squire, and waited to hear what was said\nto him. The Squire was fumbling at the taper on the writing-table,\nand before he answered much he lighted it, and signing to his friend\nto follow him, he went softly to the sofa and showed him the sleeping\nchild, taking the utmost care not to arouse it by flare or sound.\n\n\"Well! this is a fine young gentleman,\" said Mr. Gibson, returning\nto the fire rather sooner than the Squire expected. \"And you've got\nthe mother here, I understand. Mrs. Osborne Hamley, as we must call\nher, poor thing! It's a sad coming home to her; for I hear she knew\nnothing of his death.\" He spoke without exactly addressing any one,\nso that either Molly or the Squire might answer as they liked. The\nSquire said,--\n\n\"Yes! She's felt it a terrible shock. She's upstairs in the best\nbedroom. I should like you to see her, Gibson, if she'll let you. We\nmust do our duty by her, for my poor lad's sake. I wish he could have\nseen his boy lying there; I do. I daresay it preyed on him to have to\nkeep it all to himself. He might ha' known me, though. He might ha'\nknown my bark was waur than my bite. It's all over now, though; and\nGod forgive me if I was too sharp. I'm punished now.\"\n\nMolly grew impatient on the mother's behalf.\n\n\"Papa, I feel as if she was very ill; perhaps worse than we think.\nWill you go and see her at once?\"\n\nMr. Gibson followed her upstairs, and the Squire came too,\nthinking that he would do his duty now, and even feeling some\nself-satisfaction at conquering his desire to stay with the child.\nThey went into the room where she had been taken. She lay quite still\nin the same position as at first. Her eyes were open and tearless,\nfixed on the wall. Mr. Gibson spoke to her, but she did not answer;\nhe lifted her hand to feel her pulse; she never noticed.\n\n\"Bring me some wine at once, and order some beef-tea,\" he said to\nMolly.\n\nBut when he tried to put the wine into her mouth as she lay there on\nher side, she made no effort to receive or swallow it, and it ran out\nupon the pillow. Mr. Gibson left the room abruptly; Molly chafed the\nlittle inanimate hand; the Squire stood by in dumb dismay, touched in\nspite of himself by the death-in-life of one so young, and who must\nhave been so much beloved.\n\nMr. Gibson came back two steps at a time; he was carrying the\nhalf-awakened child in his arms. He did not scruple to rouse him into\nyet further wakefulness--did not grieve to hear him begin to wail and\ncry. His eyes were on the figure upon the bed, which at that sound\nquivered all through; and when her child was laid at her back, and\nbegan caressingly to scramble yet closer, Aimée turned round, and\ntook him in her arms, and lulled him and soothed him with the soft\nwont of mother's love.\n\nBefore she lost this faint consciousness, which was habit or instinct\nrather than thought, Mr. Gibson spoke to her in French. The child's\none word of \"maman\" had given him this clue. It was the language\nsure to be most intelligible to her dulled brain; and as it\nhappened,--only Mr. Gibson did not think of that--it was the language\nin which she had been commanded, and had learnt to obey.\n\nMr. Gibson's tongue was a little stiff at first, but by-and-by he\nspoke it with all his old readiness. He extorted from her short\nanswers at first, then longer ones, and from time to time he plied\nher with little drops of wine, until some further nourishment should\nbe at hand. Molly was struck by her father's low tones of comfort and\nsympathy, although she could not follow what was said quickly enough\nto catch the meaning of what passed.\n\nBy-and-by, however, when her father had done all that he could, and\nthey were once more downstairs, he told them more about her journey\nthan they yet knew. The hurry, the sense of acting in defiance of\na prohibition, the over-mastering anxiety, the broken night, and\nfatigue of the journey, had ill prepared her for the shock at last,\nand Mr. Gibson was seriously alarmed for the consequences. She had\nwandered strangely in her replies to him; he had perceived that she\nwas wandering, and had made great efforts to recall her senses;\nbut Mr. Gibson foresaw that some bodily illness was coming on,\nand stopped late that night, arranging many things with Molly and\nthe Squire. One--the only--comfort arising from her state was the\nprobability that she would be entirely unconscious by the morrow--the\nday of the funeral. Worn out by the contending emotions of the day,\nthe Squire seemed now unable to look beyond the wrench and trial of\nthe next twelve hours. He sate with his head in his hands, declining\nto go to bed, refusing to dwell on the thought of his grandchild--not\nthree hours ago such a darling in his eyes. Mr. Gibson gave some\ninstructions to one of the maid-servants as to the watch she was to\nkeep by Mrs. Osborne Hamley, and insisted on Molly's going to bed.\nWhen she pleaded the apparent necessity of her staying up, he said,--\n\n\"Now, Molly, look how much less trouble the dear old Squire would\ngive if he would obey orders. He is only adding to anxiety by\nindulging himself. One pardons everything to extreme grief, however.\nBut you will have enough to do to occupy all your strength for days\nto come; and go to bed you must now. I only wish I saw my way as\nclearly through other things as I do to your nearest duty. I wish I'd\nnever let Roger go wandering off; he'll wish it too, poor fellow!\nDid I tell you Cynthia is going off in hot haste to her uncle\nKirkpatrick's? I suspect a visit to him will stand in lieu of going\nout to Russia as a governess.\"\n\n\"I am sure she was quite serious in wishing for that.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes! at the time. I've no doubt she thought she was sincere\nin intending to go. But the great thing was to get out of the\nunpleasantness of the present time and place; and uncle Kirkpatrick's\nwill do this as effectually, and more pleasantly, than a situation at\nNishni-Novgorod in an ice-palace.\"\n\nHe had given Molly's thoughts a turn, which was what he wanted to\ndo. Molly could not help remembering Mr. Henderson, and his offer,\nand all the consequent hints; and wondering, and wishing--what did\nshe wish? or had she been falling asleep? Before she had quite\nascertained this point she was asleep in reality.\n\nAfter this, long days passed over in a monotonous round of care; for\nno one seemed to think of Molly's leaving the Hall during the woeful\nillness that befell Mrs. Osborne Hamley. It was not that her father\nallowed her to take much active part in the nursing; the Squire gave\nhim _carte-blanche_, and he engaged two efficient hospital nurses to\nwatch over the unconscious Aimée; but Molly was needed to receive the\nfiner directions as to her treatment and diet. It was not that she\nwas wanted for the care of the little boy; the Squire was too jealous\nof the child's exclusive love for that, and one of the housemaids was\nemployed in the actual physical charge of him; but he needed some one\nto listen to his incontinence of language, both when his passionate\nregret for his dead son came uppermost, and also when he had\ndiscovered some extraordinary charm in that son's child; and again\nwhen he was oppressed with the uncertainty of Aimée's long-continued\nillness. Molly was not so good or so bewitching a listener to\nordinary conversation as Cynthia; but where her heart was interested\nher sympathy was deep and unfailing. In this case she only wished\nthat the Squire could really feel that Aimée was not the encumbrance\nwhich he evidently considered her to be. Not that he would have\nacknowledged the fact, if it had been put before him in plain words.\nHe fought against the dim consciousness of what was in his mind; he\nspoke repeatedly of patience when no one but himself was impatient;\nhe would often say that when she grew better she must not be allowed\nto leave the Hall until she was perfectly strong, when no one was\neven contemplating the remotest chance of her leaving her child,\nexcepting only himself. Molly once or twice asked her father if she\nmight not speak to the Squire, and represent the hardship of sending\nher away--the improbability that she would consent to quit her boy,\nand so on; but Mr. Gibson only replied,--\n\n\"Wait quietly. Time enough when nature and circumstance have had\ntheir chance, and have failed.\"\n\nIt was well that Molly was such a favourite with the old servants;\nfor she had frequently to restrain and to control. To be sure, she\nhad her father's authority to back her; and they were aware that\nwhere her own comfort, ease, or pleasure was concerned she never\ninterfered, but submitted to their will. If the Squire had known of\nthe want of attendance to which she submitted with the most perfect\nmeekness, as far as she herself was the only sufferer, he would have\ngone into a towering rage. But Molly hardly thought of it, so anxious\nwas she to do all she could for others, and to remember the various\ncharges which her father gave her in his daily visits. Perhaps he\ndid not spare her enough; she was willing and uncomplaining; but one\nday after Mrs. Osborne Hamley had \"taken the turn,\" as the nurses\ncalled it, when she was lying weak as a new-born baby, but with her\nfaculties all restored, and her fever gone,--when spring buds were\nblooming out, and spring birds sang merrily,--Molly answered to her\nfather's sudden questioning that she felt unaccountably weary; that\nher head ached heavily, and that she was aware of a sluggishness of\nthought which it required a painful effort to overcome.\n\n\"Don't go on,\" said Mr. Gibson, with a quick pang of anxiety, almost\nof remorse. \"Lie down here--with your back to the light. I'll come\nback and see you before I go.\" And off he went in search of the\nSquire. He had a good long walk before he came upon Mr. Hamley in\na field of spring wheat, where the women were weeding, his little\ngrandson holding to his finger in the intervals of short walks of\ninquiry into the dirtiest places, which was all his sturdy little\nlimbs could manage.\n\n\"Well, Gibson, and how goes the patient? Better? I wish we could\nget her out of doors, such a fine day as it is. It would make her\nstrong as soon as anything. I used to beg my poor lad to come out\nmore. Maybe, I worried him; but the air is the finest thing for\nstrengthening that I know of. Though, perhaps, she'll not thrive in\nEnglish air as if she'd been born here; and she'll not be quite right\ntill she gets back to her native place, wherever that is.\"\n\n\"I don't know. I begin to think we shall get her quite round here;\nand I don't know that she could be in a better place. But it's not\nabout her. May I order the carriage for my Molly?\" Mr. Gibson's voice\nsounded as if he was choking a little as he said these last words.\n\n\"To be sure,\" said the Squire, setting the child down. He had been\nholding him in his arms the last few minutes: but now he wanted all\nhis eyes to look into Mr. Gibson's face. \"I say,\" said he, catching\nhold of Mr. Gibson's arm, \"what's the matter, man? Don't twitch up\nyour face like that, but speak!\"\n\n\"Nothing's the matter,\" said Mr. Gibson, hastily. \"Only I want her at\nhome, under my own eye;\" and he turned away to go to the house. But\nthe Squire left his field and his weeders, and kept at Mr. Gibson's\nside. He wanted to speak, but his heart was so full he did not know\nwhat to say. \"I say, Gibson,\" he got out at last, \"your Molly is\nliker a child of mine than a stranger; and I reckon we've all on us\nbeen coming too hard upon her. You don't think there's much amiss, do\nyou?\"\n\n\"How can I tell?\" said Mr. Gibson, almost savagely. But any hastiness\nof temper was instinctively understood by the Squire; and he was not\noffended, though he did not speak again till they reached the house.\nThen he went to order the carriage, and stood by sorrowful enough\nwhile the horses were being put in. He felt as if he should not know\nwhat to do without Molly; he had never known her value, he thought,\ntill now. But he kept silence on this view of the case; which was a\npraiseworthy effort on the part of one who usually let by-standers\nsee and hear as much of his passing feelings as if he had had a\nwindow in his breast. He stood by while Mr. Gibson helped the\nfaintly-smiling, tearful Molly into the carriage. Then the Squire\nmounted on the step and kissed her hand; but when he tried to thank\nher and bless her, he broke down; and as soon as he was once more\nsafely on the ground, Mr. Gibson cried out to the coachman to drive\non. And so Molly left Hamley Hall. From time to time her father\nrode up to the window, and made some little cheerful and apparently\ncareless remark. When they came within two miles of Hollingford, he\nput spurs to his horse, and rode briskly past the carriage windows,\nkissing his hand to the occupant as he did so. He went on to prepare\nher home for Molly: when she arrived Mrs. Gibson was ready to greet\nher. Mr. Gibson had given one or two of his bright, imperative\norders, and Mrs. Gibson was feeling rather lonely \"without either of\nher two dear girls at home,\" as she phrased it, to herself as well as\nto others.\n\n\"Why, my sweet Molly, this is an unexpected pleasure. Only this\nmorning I said to papa, 'When do you think we shall see our Molly\nback?' He did not say much--he never does, you know; but I am sure he\nthought directly of giving me this surprise, this pleasure. You're\nlooking a little--what shall I call it? I remember such a pretty line\nof poetry, 'Oh, call her fair, not pale!'--so we'll call you fair.\"\n\n\"You'd better not call her anything, but let her get to her own room\nand have a good rest as soon as possible. Haven't you got a trashy\nnovel or two in the house? That's the literature to send her to\nsleep.\"\n\nHe did not leave her till he had seen her laid on a sofa in a\ndarkened room, with some slight pretence of reading in her hand. Then\nhe came away, leading his wife, who turned round at the door to kiss\nher hand to Molly, and make a little face of unwillingness to be\ndragged away.\n\n\"Now, Hyacinth,\" said he, as he took his wife into the drawing-room,\n\"she will need much care. She has been overworked, and I've been a\nfool. That's all. We must keep her from all worry and care,--but I\nwon't answer for it that she'll not have an illness, for all that!\"\n\n\"Poor thing! she does look worn out. She is something like me, her\nfeelings are too much for her. But now she is come home she shall\nfind us as cheerful as possible. I can answer for myself; and you\nreally must brighten up your doleful face, my dear--nothing so\nbad for invalids as the appearance of depression in those around\nthem. I have had such a pleasant letter from Cynthia to-day. Uncle\nKirkpatrick really seems to make so much of her, he treats her just\nlike a daughter; he has given her a ticket to the Concerts of Ancient\nMusic; and Mr. Henderson has been to call on her, in spite of all\nthat has gone before.\"\n\nFor an instant, Mr. Gibson thought that it was easy enough for\nhis wife to be cheerful, with the pleasant thoughts and evident\nanticipations she had in her mind, but a little more difficult for\nhim to put off his doleful looks while his own child lay in a state\nof suffering and illness which might be the precursor of a still\nworse malady. But he was always a man for immediate action as soon\nas he had resolved on the course to be taken; and he knew that \"some\nmust watch, while some must sleep; so runs the world away.\"\n\nThe illness which he apprehended came upon Molly; not violently or\nacutely, so that there was any immediate danger to be dreaded; but\nmaking a long pull upon her strength, which seemed to lessen day\nby day, until at last her father feared that she might become a\npermanent invalid. There was nothing very decided or alarming to tell\nCynthia, and Mrs. Gibson kept the dark side from her in her letters.\n\"Molly was feeling the spring weather;\" or \"Molly had been a good\ndeal overdone with her stay at the Hall, and was resting;\" such\nlittle sentences told nothing of Molly's real state. But then, as\nMrs. Gibson said to herself, it would be a pity to disturb Cynthia's\npleasure by telling her much about Molly; indeed, there was not much\nto tell, one day was so like another. But it so happened that Lady\nHarriet,--who came whenever she could to sit awhile with Molly,\nat first against Mrs. Gibson's will, and afterwards with her full\nconsent,--for reasons of her own, Lady Harriet wrote a letter to\nCynthia, to which she was urged by Mrs. Gibson. It fell out in this\nmanner:--One day, when Lady Harriet was sitting in the drawing-room\nfor a few minutes after she had been with Molly, she said,--\n\n\"Really, Clare, I spend so much time in your house that I'm going\nto establish a work-basket here. Mary has infected me with her\nnotability, and I'm going to work mamma a footstool. It is to be\na surprise; and so if I do it here she will know nothing about it.\nOnly I cannot match the gold beads I want for the pansies in this\ndear little town; and Hollingford, who could send me down stars and\nplanets if I asked him, I make no doubt, could no more match beads\nthan--\"\n\n\"My dear Lady Harriet! you forget Cynthia! Think what a pleasure it\nwould be to her to do anything for you.\"\n\n\"Would it? Then she shall have plenty of it; but mind, it is you who\nhave answered for her. She shall get me some wool too; how good I am\nto confer so much pleasure on a fellow-creature! But seriously, do\nyou think I might write and give her a few commissions? Neither Agnes\nnor Mary are in town--\"\n\n\"I am sure she would be delighted,\" said Mrs. Gibson, who also took\ninto consideration the reflection of aristocratic honour that would\nfall upon Cynthia if she had a letter from Lady Harriet while at\nMr. Kirkpatrick's. So she gave the address, and Lady Harriet wrote.\nAll the first part of the letter was taken up with apology and\ncommissions; but then, never doubting but that Cynthia was aware of\nMolly's state, she went on to say--\n\n\"I saw Molly this morning. Twice I have been forbidden admittance, as\nshe was too ill to see any one out of her own family. I wish we could\nbegin to perceive a change for the better; but she looks more fading\nevery time, and I fear Mr. Gibson considers it a very anxious case.\"\n\nThe day but one after this letter was despatched, Cynthia walked into\nthe drawing-room at home with as much apparent composure as if she\nhad left it not an hour before. Mrs. Gibson was dozing, but believing\nherself to be reading; she had been with Molly the greater part of\nthe morning, and now after her lunch, and the invalid's pretence of\nearly dinner, she considered herself entitled to some repose. She\nstarted up as Cynthia came in:\n\n\"Cynthia! Dear child, where have you come from? Why in the world have\nyou come? My poor nerves! My heart is quite fluttering; but, to be\nsure, it's no wonder with all this anxiety I have to undergo. Why\nhave you come back?\"\n\n\"Because of the anxiety you speak of, mamma. I never knew,--you never\ntold me how ill Molly was.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! I beg your pardon, my dear, but it's really nonsense.\nMolly's illness is only nervous, Mr. Gibson says. A nervous fever;\nbut you must remember nerves are mere fancy, and she's getting\nbetter. Such a pity for you to have left your uncle's. Who told you\nabout Molly?\"\n\n\"Lady Harriet. She wrote about some wool--\"\n\n\"I know,--I know. But you might have known she always exaggerates\nthings. Not but what I have been almost worn out with nursing.\nPerhaps, after all, it is a very good thing you have come, my dear;\nand now you shall come down into the dining-room and have some lunch,\nand tell me all the Hyde Park Street news--into my room,--don't go\ninto yours yet--Molly is so sensitive to noise!\"\n\nWhile Cynthia ate her lunch, Mrs. Gibson went on questioning. \"And\nyour aunt, how is her cold? And Helen, quite strong again? Margaretta\nas pretty as ever? The boys are at Harrow, I suppose? And my old\nfavourite, Mr. Henderson?\" She could not manage to slip in this last\ninquiry naturally; in spite of herself there was a change of tone, an\naccent of eagerness. Cynthia did not reply on the instant; she poured\nherself out some water with great deliberation, and then said,--\n\n\"My aunt is quite well; Helen is as strong as she ever is, and\nMargaretta very pretty. The boys are at Harrow, and I conclude that\nMr. Henderson is enjoying his usual health, for he was to dine at my\nuncle's to-day.\"\n\n\"Take care, Cynthia. Look how you are cutting that gooseberry tart,\"\nsaid Mrs. Gibson, with sharp annoyance; not provoked by Cynthia's\npresent action, although it gave excuse for a little vent of temper.\n\"I can't think how you could come off in this sudden kind of way; I\nam sure it must have annoyed your uncle and aunt. I daresay they'll\nnever ask you again.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I am to go back there as soon as ever I can be easy\nto leave Molly.\"\n\n\"'Easy to leave Molly.' Now that really is nonsense, and rather\nuncomplimentary to me, I must say: nursing her as I have been doing,\ndaily, and almost nightly; for I have been wakened times out of\nnumber by Mr. Gibson getting up, and going to see if she had had her\nmedicine properly.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid she has been very ill?\" asked Cynthia.\n\n\"Yes, she has, in one way; but not in another. It was what I call\nmore a tedious, than an interesting illness. There was no immediate\ndanger, but she lay much in the same state from day to day.\"\n\n\"I wish I had known!\" sighed Cynthia. \"Do you think I might go and\nsee her now?\"\n\n\"I'll go and prepare her. You'll find her a good deal better than\nshe has been. Ah; here's Mr. Gibson!\" He came into the dining-room,\nhearing voices. Cynthia thought that he looked much older.\n\n\"You here!\" said he, coming forward to shake hands. \"Why, how did you\ncome?\"\n\n\"By the 'Umpire.' I never knew Molly had been so ill, or I would have\ncome directly.\" Her eyes were full of tears. Mr. Gibson was touched;\nhe shook her hand again, and murmured, \"You're a good girl, Cynthia.\"\n\n\"She's heard one of dear Lady Harriet's exaggerated accounts,\" said\nMrs. Gibson, \"and come straight off. I tell her it's very foolish,\nfor Molly is a great deal better now.\"\n\n\"Very foolish,\" said Mr. Gibson, echoing his wife's words, but\nsmiling at Cynthia. \"But sometimes one likes foolish people for their\nfolly, better than wise people for their wisdom.\"\n\n\"I am afraid folly always annoys me,\" said his wife. \"However,\nCynthia is here, and what is done, is done.\"\n\n\"Very true, my dear. And now I'll run up and see my little girl,\nand tell her the good news. You'd better follow me in a couple of\nminutes.\" This to Cynthia.\n\nMolly's delight at seeing her showed itself first in a few happy\ntears; and then in soft caresses and inarticulate sounds of love.\nOnce or twice she began, \"It is such a pleasure,\" and there she\nstopped short. But the eloquence of these five words sank deep into\nCynthia's heart. She had returned just at the right time, when Molly\nwanted the gentle fillip of the society of a fresh and yet a familiar\nperson. Cynthia's tact made her talkative or silent, gay or grave,\nas the varying humour of Molly required. She listened, too, with the\nsemblance, if not the reality, of unwearied interest, to Molly's\ncontinual recurrence to all the time of distress and sorrow at Hamley\nHall, and to the scenes which had then so deeply impressed themselves\nupon her susceptible nature. Cynthia instinctively knew that the\nrepetition of all these painful recollections would ease the\noppressed memory, which refused to dwell on anything but what had\noccurred at a time of feverish disturbance of health. So she never\ninterrupted Molly, as Mrs. Gibson had so frequently done, with--\"You\ntold me all that before, my dear. Let us talk of something else;\" or,\n\"Really I cannot allow you to be always dwelling on painful thoughts.\nTry and be a little more cheerful. Youth is gay. You are young,\nand therefore you ought to be gay. That is put in a famous form of\nspeech; I forget exactly what it is called.\"\n\nSo Molly's health and spirits improved rapidly after Cynthia's\nreturn: and although she was likely to retain many of her invalid\nhabits during the summer, she was able to take drives, and enjoy the\nfine weather; it was only her as yet tender spirits that required a\nlittle management. All the Hollingford people forgot that they had\never thought of her except as a darling of the town; and each in his\nor her way showed kind interest in her father's child. Miss Browning\nand Miss Phoebe considered it quite a privilege that they were\nallowed to see her a fortnight or three weeks before any one else;\nMrs. Goodenough, spectacles on nose, stirred dainty messes in a\nsilver saucepan for Molly's benefit; the Towers sent books, and\nforced fruit, and new caricatures, and strange and delicate poultry;\nhumble patients of \"the doctor,\" as Mr. Gibson was usually termed,\nleft the earliest cauliflowers they could grow in their cottage\ngardens, with \"their duty for Miss.\"\n\nAnd last of all, though strongest in regard, most piteously eager in\ninterest, came Squire Hamley himself. When she was at the worst, he\nrode over every day to hear the smallest detail, facing even Mrs.\nGibson (his abomination) if her husband was not at home, to ask and\nhear, and ask and hear, till the tears were unconsciously stealing\ndown his cheeks. Every resource of his heart, or his house, or his\nlands was searched and tried, if it could bring a moment's pleasure\nto her; and whatever it might be that came from him, at her very\nworst time, it brought out a dim smile upon her face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV.\n\nAN ABSENT LOVER RETURNS.\n\n\n[Illustration (untitled)]\n\nAnd now it was late June; and to Molly's and her father's extreme\nurgency in pushing, and Mr. and Mrs. Kirkpatrick's affectionate\npersistency in pulling, Cynthia had yielded, and had gone back to\nfinish her interrupted visit in London, but not before the bruit of\nher previous sudden return to nurse Molly had told strongly in her\nfavour in the fluctuating opinion of the little town. Her affair with\nMr. Preston was thrust into the shade; while every one was speaking\nof her warm heart. Under the gleam of Molly's recovery everything\nassumed a rosy hue, as indeed became the time when actual roses were\nfully in bloom.\n\nOne morning Mrs. Gibson brought Molly a great basket of flowers, that\nhad been sent from the Hall. Molly still breakfasted in bed, but she\nhad just come down, and was now well enough to arrange the flowers\nfor the drawing-room, and as she did so with these blossoms, she made\nsome comments on each.\n\n\"Ah! these white pinks! They were Mrs. Hamley's favourite flower;\nand so like her! This little bit of sweet briar, it quite scents the\nroom. It has pricked my fingers, but never mind. Oh, mamma, look\nat this rose! I forget its name, but it is very rare, and grows up\nin the sheltered corner of the wall, near the mulberry-tree. Roger\nbought the tree for his mother with his own money when he was quite a\nboy; he showed it me, and made me notice it.\"\n\n\"I daresay it was Roger who got it now. You heard papa say he had\nseen him yesterday.\"\n\n\"No! Roger! Roger come home!\" said Molly, turning first red, then\nvery white.\n\n\"Yes. Oh, I remember you had gone to bed before papa came in, and he\nwas called off early to tiresome Mrs. Beale. Yes, Roger turned up at\nthe Hall the day before yesterday.\"\n\nBut Molly leaned back against her chair, too faint to do more at the\nflowers for some time. She had been startled by the suddenness of the\nnews. \"Roger come home!\"\n\nIt happened that Mr. Gibson was unusually busy on this particular\nday, and he did not come home till late in the afternoon. But Molly\nkept her place in the drawing-room all the time, not even going to\ntake her customary siesta, so anxious was she to hear everything\nabout Roger's return, which as yet appeared to her almost incredible.\nBut it was quite natural in reality; the long monotony of her illness\nhad made her lose all count of time. When Roger left England, his\nidea was to coast round Africa on the eastern side until he reached\nthe Cape; and thence to make what further journey or voyage might\nseem to him best in pursuit of his scientific objects. To Cape Town\nall his letters had been addressed of late; and there, two months\nbefore, he had received the intelligence of Osborne's death, as well\nas Cynthia's hasty letter of relinquishment. He did not consider\nthat he was doing wrong in returning to England immediately, and\nreporting himself to the gentlemen who had sent him out, with a\nfull explanation of the circumstances relating to Osborne's private\nmarriage and sudden death. He offered, and they accepted his offer,\nto go out again for any time that they might think equivalent to the\nfive months he was yet engaged to them for. They were most of them\ngentlemen of property, and saw the full importance of proving the\nmarriage of an eldest son, and installing his child as the natural\nheir to a long-descended estate. This much information, but in a more\ncondensed form, Mr. Gibson gave to Molly, in a very few minutes. She\nsat up on her sofa, looking very pretty with the flush on her cheeks,\nand the brightness in her eyes.\n\n\"Well!\" said she, when her father stopped speaking.\n\n\"Well! what?\" asked he, playfully.\n\n\"Oh! why, such a number of things. I've been waiting all day to ask\nyou all about everything. How is he looking?\"\n\n\"If a young man of twenty-four ever does take to growing taller, I\nshould say that he was taller. As it is, I suppose it's only that he\nlooks broader, stronger--more muscular.\"\n\n\"Oh! is he changed?\" asked Molly, a little disturbed by this account.\n\n\"No, not changed; and yet not the same. He's as brown as a berry for\none thing; caught a little of the negro tinge, and a beard as fine\nand sweeping as my bay-mare's tail.\"\n\n\"A beard! But go on, papa. Does he talk as he used to do? I should\nknow his voice amongst ten thousand.\"\n\n\"I didn't catch any Hottentot twang, if that's what you mean. Nor did\nhe say, 'Cæsar and Pompey berry much alike, 'specially Pompey,' which\nis the only specimen of negro language I can remember just at this\nmoment.\"\n\n\"And which I never could see the wit of,\" said Mrs. Gibson, who had\ncome into the room after the conversation had begun; and did not\nunderstand what it was aiming at. Molly fidgeted; she wanted to go on\nwith her questions and keep her father to definite and matter-of-fact\nanswers, and she knew that when his wife chimed into a conversation,\nMr. Gibson was very apt to find out that he must go about some\nnecessary piece of business.\n\n\"Tell me, how are they all getting on together?\" It was an inquiry\nwhich she did not make in general before Mrs. Gibson, for Molly and\nher father had tacitly agreed to keep silence on what they knew or\nhad observed, respecting the three who formed the present family at\nthe Hall.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Mr. Gibson, \"Roger is evidently putting everything to\nrights in his firm, quiet way.\"\n\n\"'Things to rights.' Why, what's wrong?\" asked Mrs. Gibson quickly.\n\"The Squire and the French daughter-in-law don't get on well\ntogether, I suppose? I am always so glad Cynthia acted with the\npromptitude she did; it would have been very awkward for her to have\nbeen mixed up with all these complications. Poor Roger! to find\nhimself supplanted by a child when he comes home!\"\n\n\"You were not in the room, my dear, when I was telling Molly of the\nreasons for Roger's return; it was to put his brother's child at once\ninto his rightful and legal place. So now, when he finds the work\npartly done to his hands, he is happy and gratified in proportion.\"\n\n\"Then he is not much affected by Cynthia's breaking off her\nengagement?\" (Mrs. Gibson could afford to call it an \"engagement\"\nnow.) \"I never did give him credit for very deep feelings.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, he feels it very acutely. He and I had a long talk\nabout it, yesterday.\"\n\nBoth Molly and Mrs. Gibson would have liked to have heard something\nmore about this conversation; but Mr. Gibson did not choose to go on\nwith the subject. The only point which he disclosed was that Roger\nhad insisted on his right to have a personal interview with Cynthia;\nand, on hearing that she was in London at present, had deferred any\nfurther explanation or expostulation by letter, preferring to await\nher return.\n\nMolly went on with her questions on other subjects. \"And Mrs. Osborne\nHamley? How is she?\"\n\n\"Wonderfully brightened up by Roger's presence. I don't think I've\never seen her smile before; but she gives him the sweetest smiles\nfrom time to time. They are evidently good friends; and she loses her\nstrange startled look when she speaks to him. I suspect she has been\nquite aware of the Squire's wish that she should return to France;\nand has been hard put to it to decide whether to leave her child or\nnot. The idea that she would have to make some such decision came\nupon her when she was completely shattered by grief and illness, and\nshe hasn't had any one to consult as to her duty until Roger came,\nupon whom she has evidently firm reliance. He told me something of\nthis himself.\"\n\n\"You seem to have had quite a long conversation with him, papa!\"\n\n\"Yes. I was going to see old Abraham, when the Squire called to me\nover the hedge, as I was jogging along. He told me the news; and\nthere was no resisting his invitation to come back and lunch with\nthem. Besides, one gets a great deal of meaning out of Roger's words;\nit didn't take so very long a time to hear this much.\"\n\n\"I should think he would come and call upon us soon,\" said Mrs.\nGibson to Molly, \"and then we shall see how much we can manage to\nhear.\"\n\n\"Do you think he will, papa?\" said Molly, more doubtfully. She\nremembered the last time he was in that very room, and the hopes with\nwhich he left it; and she fancied that she could see traces of this\nthought in her father's countenance at his wife's speech.\n\n\"I can't tell, my dear. Until he's quite convinced of Cynthia's\nintentions, it can't be very pleasant for him to come on mere visits\nof ceremony to the house in which he has known her; but he's one who\nwill always do what he thinks right, whether pleasant or not.\"\n\nMrs. Gibson could hardly wait till her husband had finished his\nsentence before she testified against a part of it.\n\n\"'Convinced of Cynthia's intentions!' I should think she had made\nthem pretty clear! What more does the man want?\"\n\n\"He's not as yet convinced that the letter wasn't written in a fit\nof temporary feeling. I've told him that this was true; although I\ndidn't feel it my place to explain to him the causes of that feeling.\nHe believes that he can induce her to resume the former footing.\nI don't; and I've told him so; but, of course, he needs the full\nconviction that she alone can give him.\"\n\n\"Poor Cynthia! My poor child!\" said Mrs. Gibson, plaintively. \"What\nshe has exposed herself to by letting herself be over-persuaded by\nthat man!\"\n\nMr. Gibson's eyes flashed fire. But he kept his lips tight closed;\nand only said, \"'That man,' indeed!\" quite below his breath.\n\nMolly, too, had been damped by an expression or two in her father's\nspeech. \"Mere visits of ceremony!\" Was it so, indeed? A \"mere visit\nof ceremony!\" Whatever it was, the call was paid before many days\nwere over. That he felt all the awkwardness of his position towards\nMrs. Gibson--that he was in reality suffering pain all the time--was\nbut too evident to Molly; but, of course, Mrs. Gibson saw nothing\nof this in her gratification at the proper respect paid to her by\none whose name was in the newspapers that chronicled his return, and\nabout whom already Lord Cumnor and the Towers family had been making\ninquiry.\n\nMolly was sitting in her pretty white invalid's dress, half reading,\nhalf dreaming, for the June air was so clear and ambient, the garden\nso full of bloom, the trees so full of leaf, that reading by the open\nwindow was only a pretence at such a time; besides which, Mrs. Gibson\ncontinually interrupted her with remarks about the pattern of her\nworsted work. It was after lunch--orthodox calling time, when Maria\nushered in Mr. Roger Hamley. Molly started up; and then stood shyly\nand quietly in her place while a bronzed, bearded, grave man came\ninto the room, in whom she at first had to seek for the merry boyish\nface she knew by heart only two years ago. But months in the climates\nin which Roger had been travelling age as much as years in more\ntemperate regions. And constant thought and anxiety while in daily\nperil of life deepen the lines of character upon the face. Moreover,\nthe circumstances that had of late affected him personally were not\nof a nature to make him either buoyant or cheerful. But his voice was\nthe same; that was the first point of the old friend Molly caught,\nwhen he addressed her in a tone far softer than he used in speaking\nconventional politenesses to her stepmother.\n\n\"I was so sorry to hear how ill you had been! You are looking but\ndelicate!\" letting his eyes rest upon her face with affectionate\nexamination. Molly felt herself colour all over with the\nconsciousness of his regard. To do something to put an end to it,\nshe looked up, and showed him her beautiful soft grey eyes, which he\nnever remembered to have noticed before. She smiled at him as she\nblushed still deeper, and said,--\n\n\"Oh! I am quite strong now to what I was. It would be a shame to be\nill when everything is in its full summer beauty.\"\n\n\"I have heard how deeply we--I am indebted to you--my father can\nhardly praise you--\"\n\n\"Please don't,\" said Molly, the tears coming into her eyes in spite\nof herself. He seemed to understand her at once; he went on as if\nspeaking to Mrs. Gibson: \"Indeed, my little sister-in-law is never\nweary of talking about Monsieur le Docteur, as she calls your\nhusband!\"\n\n\"I have not had the pleasure of making Mrs. Osborne Hamley's\nacquaintance yet,\" said Mrs. Gibson, suddenly aware of a duty which\nmight have been expected from her, \"and I must beg you to apologize\nto her for my remissness. But Molly has been such a care and anxiety\nto me--for, you know, I look upon her quite as my own child--that\nI really have not gone anywhere; excepting to the Towers, perhaps\nI should say, which is just like another home to me. And then I\nunderstood that Mrs. Osborne Hamley was thinking of returning to\nFrance before long? Still it was very remiss.\"\n\nThe little trap thus set for news of what might be going on in the\nHamley family was quite successful. Roger answered her thus:--\n\n\"I am sure Mrs. Osborne Hamley will be very glad to see any friends\nof the family, as soon as she is a little stronger. I hope she will\nnot go back to France at all. She is an orphan, and I trust we shall\ninduce her to remain with my father. But at present nothing is\narranged.\" Then, as if glad to have got over his \"visit of ceremony,\"\nhe got up and took leave. When he was at the door he looked back,\nhaving, as he thought, a word more to say; but he quite forgot what\nit was, for he surprised Molly's intent gaze, and sudden confusion at\ndiscovery, and went away as soon as he could.\n\n\"Poor Osborne was right!\" said he. \"She has grown into delicate\nfragrant beauty, just as he said she would: or is it the character\nwhich has formed her face? Now the next time I enter these doors, it\nwill be to learn my fate!\"\n\nMr. Gibson had told his wife of Roger's desire to have a personal\ninterview with Cynthia, rather with a view to her repeating what he\nsaid to her daughter. He did not see any exact necessity for this, it\nis true; but he thought it might be advisable that she should know\nall the truth in which she was concerned, and he told his wife this.\nBut she took the affair into her own management, and, although she\napparently agreed with Mr. Gibson, she never named the affair to\nCynthia; all that she said to her was--\n\n\"Your old admirer, Roger Hamley, has come home in a great hurry,\nin consequence of poor dear Osborne's unexpected decease. He must\nhave been rather surprised to find the widow and her little boy\nestablished at the Hall. He came to call here the other day, and\nmade himself really rather agreeable, although his manners are not\nimproved by the society he has kept on his travels. Still I prophesy\nhe will be considered as a fashionable 'lion,' and perhaps the very\nuncouthness which jars against my sense of refinement, may even\nbecome admired in a scientific traveller, who has been into more\ndesert places, and eaten more extraordinary food, than any other\nEnglishman of the day. I suppose he has given up all chance of\ninheriting the estate, for I hear he talks of returning to Africa,\nand becoming a regular wanderer. Your name was not mentioned, but I\nbelieve he inquired about you from Mr. Gibson.\"\n\n\"There!\" said she to herself, as she folded up and directed her\nletter; \"that can't disturb her, or make her uncomfortable. And it's\nall the truth too, or very near it. Of course he'll want to see her\nwhen she comes back; but by that time I do hope Mr. Henderson will\nhave proposed again, and that that affair will be all settled.\"\n\nBut Cynthia returned to Hollingford one Tuesday morning, and in\nanswer to her mother's anxious inquiries on the subject, would only\nsay that Mr. Henderson had not offered again. \"Why should he? She had\nrefused him once, and he did not know the reason of her refusal, at\nleast one of the reasons. She did not know if she should have taken\nhim if there had been no such person as Roger Hamley in the world.\nNo! Uncle and aunt Kirkpatrick had never heard anything about Roger's\noffer,--nor had her cousins. She had always declared her wish to\nkeep it a secret, and she had not mentioned it to any one, whatever\nother people might have done.\" Underneath this light and careless\nvein there were other feelings; but Mrs. Gibson was not one to\nprobe beneath the surface. She had set her heart on Mr. Henderson's\nmarrying Cynthia very early in their acquaintance; and to know,\nfirstly, that the same wish had entered into his head, and that\nRoger's attachment to Cynthia, with its consequences, had been\nthe obstacle; and secondly, that Cynthia herself with all the\nopportunities of propinquity which she had lately had, had failed to\nprovoke a repetition of the offer,--was, as Mrs. Gibson said, \"enough\nto provoke a saint.\" All the rest of the day she alluded to Cynthia\nas a disappointing and ungrateful daughter; Molly could not make out\nwhy, and resented it for Cynthia, until the latter said, bitterly,\n\"Never mind, Molly. Mamma is only vexed because Mr.--because I have\nnot come back an engaged young lady.\"\n\n\"Yes; and I am sure you might have done,--there's the ingratitude! I\nam not so unjust as to want you to do what you can't do!\" said Mrs.\nGibson, querulously.\n\n\"But where's the ingratitude, mamma? I'm very much tired, and perhaps\nthat makes me stupid; but I cannot see the ingratitude.\" Cynthia\nspoke very wearily, leaning her head back on the sofa-cushions, as if\nshe did not care to have an answer.\n\n\"Why, don't you see we are doing all we can for you; dressing you\nwell, and sending you to London; and when you might relieve us of the\nexpense of all this, you don't.\"\n\n\"No! Cynthia, I will speak,\" said Molly, all crimson with\nindignation, and pushing away Cynthia's restraining hand. \"I am sure\npapa does not feel, and does not mind, any expense he incurs about\nhis daughters. And I know quite well that he does not wish us to\nmarry, unless--\" She faltered and stopped.\n\n\"Unless what?\" said Mrs. Gibson, half-mocking.\n\n\"Unless we love some one very dearly indeed,\" said Molly, in a low,\nfirm tone.\n\n\"Well, after this tirade--really rather indelicate, I must say--I\nhave done. I will neither help nor hinder any love-affairs of you two\nyoung ladies. In my days we were glad of the advice of our elders.\"\nAnd she left the room to put into fulfilment an idea which had just\nstruck her: to write a confidential letter to Mrs. Kirkpatrick,\ngiving her her version of Cynthia's \"unfortunate entanglement,\" and\n\"delicate sense of honour,\" and hints of her entire indifference\nto all the masculine portion of the world, Mr. Henderson being\ndexterously excluded from the category.\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" said Molly, throwing herself back in a chair, with a sigh\nof relief, as Mrs. Gibson left the room; \"how cross I do get since\nI've been ill! But I couldn't bear her to speak as if papa grudged\nyou anything.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he doesn't, Molly. You need not defend him on my account.\nBut I'm sorry mamma still looks upon me as 'an encumbrance,' as the\nadvertisements in _The Times_ always call us unfortunate children.\nBut I've been an encumbrance to her all my life. I'm getting very\nmuch into despair about everything, Molly. I shall try my luck in\nRussia. I've heard of a situation as English governess at Moscow, in\na family owning whole provinces of land, and serfs by the hundred. I\nput off writing my letter till I came home; I shall be as much out\nof the way there as if I was married. Oh, dear! travelling all night\nisn't good for the spirits. How is Mr. Preston?\"\n\n\"Oh, he has taken Cumnor Grange, three miles away, and he never comes\nin to the Hollingford tea-parties now. I saw him once in the street,\nbut it's a question which of us tried the hardest to get out of the\nother's way.\"\n\n\"You've not said anything about Roger, yet.\"\n\n\"No; I didn't know if you would care to hear. He is very much\nolder-looking; quite a strong grown-up man. And papa says he is much\ngraver. Ask me any questions, if you want to know, but I have only\nseen him once.\"\n\n\"I was in hopes he would have left the neighbourhood by this time.\nMamma said he was going to travel again.\"\n\n\"I can't tell,\" said Molly. \"I suppose you know,\" she continued, but\nhesitating a little before she spoke, \"that he wishes to see you?\"\n\n\"No! I never heard. I wish he would have been satisfied with my\nletter. It was as decided as I could make it. If I say I won't see\nhim, I wonder if his will or mine will be the strongest?\"\n\n\"His,\" said Molly. \"But you must see him; you owe it to him. He will\nnever be satisfied without it.\"\n\n\"Suppose he talks me round into resuming the engagement? I should\nonly break it off again.\"\n\n\"Surely you can't be 'talked round' if your mind is made up. But\nperhaps it is not really, Cynthia?\" asked she, with a little wistful\nanxiety betraying itself in her face.\n\n\"It is quite made up. I am going to teach little Russian girls; and\nam never going to marry nobody.\"\n\n\"You are not serious, Cynthia. And yet it is a very serious thing.\"\n\nBut Cynthia went into one of her wild moods, and no more reason or\nsensible meaning was to be got out of her at the time.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI.\n\n\"OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE, AND ON WITH THE NEW.\"\n\n\nThe next morning saw Mrs. Gibson in a much more contented frame of\nmind. She had written and posted her letter, and the next thing was\nto keep Cynthia in what she called a reasonable state, or, in other\nwords, to try and cajole her into docility. But it was so much labour\nlost. Cynthia had already received a letter from Mr. Henderson before\nshe came down to breakfast,--a declaration of love, a proposal of\nmarriage as clear as words could make it; together with an intimation\nthat, unable to wait for the slow delays of the post, he was going\nto follow her down to Hollingford, and would arrive at the same time\nthat she had done herself on the previous day. Cynthia said nothing\nabout this letter to any one. She came late into the breakfast-room,\nafter Mr. and Mrs. Gibson had finished the actual business of the\nmeal; but her unpunctuality was quite accounted for by the fact that\nshe had been travelling all the night before. Molly was not as yet\nstrong enough to get up so early. Cynthia hardly spoke, and did not\ntouch her food. Mr. Gibson went about his daily business, and Cynthia\nand her mother were left alone.\n\n\"My dear,\" said Mrs. Gibson, \"you are not eating your breakfast as\nyou should do. I am afraid our meals seem very plain and homely to\nyou after those in Hyde Park Street?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Cynthia; \"I'm not hungry, that's all.\"\n\n\"If we were as rich as your uncle, I should feel it to be both a duty\nand a pleasure to keep an elegant table; but limited means are a\nsad clog to one's wishes. I don't suppose that, work as he will, Mr.\nGibson can earn more than he does at present; while the capabilities\nof the law are boundless. Lord Chancellor! Titles as well as\nfortune!\"\n\nCynthia was almost too much absorbed in her own reflections to reply,\nbut she did say,--\"Hundreds of briefless barristers. Take the other\nside, mamma.\"\n\n\"Well; but I have noticed that many of these have private fortunes.\"\n\n\"Perhaps. Mamma, I expect Mr. Henderson will come and call this\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Oh, my precious child! But how do you know? My darling Cynthia, am I\nto congratulate you?\"\n\n\"No! I suppose I must tell you. I have had a letter this morning from\nhim, and he's coming down by the 'Umpire' to-day.\"\n\n\"But he has offered? He surely must mean to offer, at any rate?\"\n\nCynthia played with her teaspoon before she replied; then she looked\nup, like one startled from a dream, and caught the echo of her\nmother's question.\n\n\"Offered! yes, I suppose he has.\"\n\n\"And you accept him? Say 'yes,' Cynthia, and make me happy!\"\n\n\"I shan't say 'yes' to make any one happy except myself, and the\nRussian scheme has great charms for me.\" She said this to plague\nher mother, and lessen Mrs. Gibson's exuberance of joy, it must be\nconfessed; for her mind was pretty well made up. But it did not\naffect Mrs. Gibson, who affixed even less truth to it than there\nreally was. The idea of a residence in a new, strange country, among\nnew, strange people, was not without allurement to Cynthia.\n\n\"You always look nice, dear; but don't you think you had better put\non that pretty lilac silk?\"\n\n\"I shall not vary a thread or a shred from what I have got on now.\"\n\n\"You dear, wilful creature! you know you always look lovely in\nwhatever you put on.\" So, kissing her daughter, Mrs. Gibson left the\nroom, intent on the lunch which should impress Mr. Henderson at once\nwith an idea of family refinement.\n\nCynthia went upstairs to Molly; she was inclined to tell her about\nMr. Henderson, but she found it impossible to introduce the subject\nnaturally, so she left it to time to reveal the future as gradually\nas it might. Molly was tired with a bad night; and her father, in\nhis flying visit to his darling before going out, had advised her to\nstay upstairs for the greater part of the morning, and to keep quiet\nin her own room till after her early dinner, so Time had not a fair\nchance of telling her what he had in store in his budget. Mrs. Gibson\nsent an apology to Molly for not paying her her usual morning visit,\nand told Cynthia to give Mr. Henderson's probable coming as a reason\nfor her occupation downstairs. But Cynthia did no such thing. She\nkissed Molly, and sate silently by her, holding her hand; till at\nlength she jumped up, and said, \"You shall be left alone now, little\none. I want you to be very well and very bright this afternoon: so\nrest now.\" And Cynthia left her, and went to her own room, locked the\ndoor, and began to think.\n\nSome one was thinking about her at the same time, and it was not Mr.\nHenderson. Roger had heard from Mr. Gibson that Cynthia had come\nhome, and he was resolving to go to her at once, and have one strong,\nmanly attempt to overcome the obstacles whatever they might be--and\nof their nature he was not fully aware--that she had conjured up\nagainst the continuance of their relation to each other. He left his\nfather--he left them all--and went off into the woods, to be alone\nuntil the time came when he might mount his horse and ride over to\nput his fate to the touch. He was as careful as ever not to interfere\nwith the morning hours that were tabooed to him of old; but waiting\nwas very hard work when he knew that she was so near, and the time so\nnear at hand.\n\nYet he rode slowly, compelling himself to quietness and patience when\nhe was once really on the way to her.\n\n\"Mrs. Gibson at home? Miss Kirkpatrick?\" he asked of the servant,\nMaria, who opened the door. She was confused, but he did not notice\nit.\n\n\"I think so--I'm not sure! Will you walk up into the drawing-room,\nsir? Miss Gibson is there, I know.\"\n\nSo he went upstairs, all his nerves on the strain for the coming\ninterview with Cynthia. It was either a relief or a disappointment,\nhe was not sure which, to find only Molly in the room:--Molly, half\nlying on the couch in the bow-window which commanded the garden;\ndraped in soft white drapery, very white herself, and a laced\nhalf-handkerchief tied over her head to save her from any ill effects\nof the air that blew in through the open window. He was so ready to\nspeak to Cynthia that he hardly knew what to say to any one else.\n\n\"I am afraid you are not so well,\" he said to Molly, who sat up to\nreceive him, and who suddenly began to tremble with emotion.\n\n\"I'm a little tired, that's all,\" said she; and then she was quite\nsilent, hoping that he might go, and yet somehow wishing him to stay.\nBut he took a chair and placed it near her, opposite to the window.\nHe thought that surely Maria would tell Miss Kirkpatrick that she was\nwanted, and that at any moment he might hear her light quick footstep\non the stairs. He felt he ought to talk, but he could not think of\nanything to say. The pink flush came out on Molly's cheeks; once or\ntwice she was on the point of speaking, but again she thought better\nof it; and the pauses between their faint disjointed remarks became\nlonger and longer. Suddenly, in one of these pauses, the merry murmur\nof distant happy voices in the garden came nearer and nearer; Molly\nlooked more and more uneasy and flushed, and in spite of herself\nkept watching Roger's face. He could see over her into the garden. A\nsudden deep colour overspread him, as if his heart had sent its blood\nout coursing at full gallop. Cynthia and Mr. Henderson had come in\nsight; he eagerly talking to her as he bent forward to look into her\nface; she, her looks half averted in pretty shyness, was evidently\ncoquetting about some flowers, which she either would not give,\nor would not take. Just then, for the lovers had emerged from the\nshrubbery into comparatively public life, Maria was seen approaching;\napparently she had feminine tact enough to induce Cynthia to leave\nher present admirer, and to go a few steps to meet her to receive\nthe whispered message that Mr. Roger Hamley was there, and wished to\nspeak to her. Roger could see her startled gesture; she turned back\nto say something to Mr. Henderson before coming towards the house.\nNow Roger spoke to Molly--spoke hurriedly, spoke hoarsely.\n\n\n[Illustration: CYNTHIA'S LAST LOVER.]\n\n\n\"Molly, tell me! Is it too late for me to speak to Cynthia? I came on\npurpose. Who is that man?\"\n\n\"Mr. Henderson. He only came to-day--but now he is her accepted\nlover. Oh, Roger, forgive me the pain!\"\n\n\"Tell her I have been, and am gone. Send out word to her. Don't let\nher be interrupted.\"\n\nAnd Roger ran downstairs at full speed, and Molly heard the\npassionate clang of the outer door. He had hardly left the house\nbefore Cynthia entered the room, pale and resolute.\n\n\"Where is he?\" she said, looking around, as if he might yet be\nhidden.\n\n\"Gone!\" said Molly, very faint.\n\n\"Gone. Oh, what a relief! It seems to be my fate never to be off with\nthe old lover before I am on with the new, and yet I did write as\ndecidedly as I could. Why, Molly, what's the matter?\" for now Molly\nhad fainted away utterly. Cynthia flew to the bell, summoned Maria,\nwater, salts, wine, anything; and as soon as Molly, gasping and\nmiserable, became conscious again, she wrote a little pencil-note to\nMr. Henderson, bidding him return to the \"George,\" whence he had come\nin the morning, and saying that if he obeyed her at once, he might be\nallowed to call again in the evening, otherwise she would not see him\ntill the next day. This she sent down by Maria, and the unlucky man\nnever believed but that it was Miss Gibson's sudden indisposition in\nthe first instance that had deprived him of his charmer's company.\nHe comforted himself for the long solitary afternoon by writing to\ntell all his friends of his happiness, and amongst them uncle and\naunt Kirkpatrick, who received his letter by the same post as that\ndiscreet epistle of Mrs. Gibson's, which she had carefully arranged\nto reveal as much as she wished, and no more.\n\n\"Was he very terrible?\" asked Cynthia, as she sate with Molly in the\nstillness of Mrs. Gibson's dressing-room.\n\n\"Oh, Cynthia, it was such pain to see him, he suffered so!\"\n\n\"I don't like people of deep feelings,\" said Cynthia, pouting. \"They\ndon't suit me. Why couldn't he let me go without this fuss? I'm not\nworth his caring for!\"\n\n\"You have the happy gift of making people love you. Remember Mr.\nPreston,--he too wouldn't give up hope.\"\n\n\"Now I won't have you classing Roger Hamley and Mr. Preston together\nin the same sentence. One was as much too bad for me as the other\nis too good. Now I hope that man in the garden is the _juste\nmilieu_,--I'm that myself, for I don't think I'm vicious, and I know\nI'm not virtuous.\"\n\n\"Do you really like him enough to marry him?\" asked Molly earnestly.\n\"Do think, Cynthia. It won't do to go on throwing your lovers off;\nyou give pain that I'm sure you do not mean to do,--that you cannot\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I can't. I'm not offended. I never set up for what I am\nnot, and I know I'm not constant. I've told Mr. Henderson so--\" She\nstopped, blushing and smiling at the recollection.\n\n\"You have! and what did he say?\"\n\n\"That he liked me just as I was; so you see he's fairly warned. Only\nhe's a little afraid, I suppose,--for he wants me to be married very\nsoon, almost directly, in fact. But I don't know if I shall give\nway,--you hardly saw him, Molly,--but he's coming again to-night, and\nmind, I'll never forgive you if you don't think him very charming.\nI believe I cared for him when he offered all those months ago, but\nI tried to think I didn't; only sometimes I really was so unhappy,\nI thought I must put an iron band round my heart to keep it from\nbreaking, like the Faithful John of the German story,--do you\nremember, Molly?--how when his master came to his crown and his\nfortune and his lady-love, after innumerable trials and disgraces,\nand was driving away from the church where he'd been married in a\ncoach and six, with Faithful John behind, the happy couple heard\nthree great cracks in succession, and on inquiring, they were the\niron-bands round his heart, that Faithful John had worn all during\nthe time of his master's tribulation, to keep it from breaking.\"\n\nIn the evening Mr. Henderson came. Molly had been very curious to see\nhim; and when she saw him she was not sure whether she liked him or\nnot. He was handsome, without being conceited; gentlemanly, without\nbeing foolishly fine. He talked easily, and never said a silly thing.\nHe was perfectly well-appointed, yet never seemed to have given a\nthought to his dress. He was good-tempered and kind; not without some\nof the cheerful flippancy of repartee which belonged to his age and\nprofession, and which his age and profession are apt to take for\nwit. But he wanted something in Molly's eyes--at any rate, in this\nfirst interview, and in her heart of hearts she thought him rather\ncommonplace. But of course she said nothing of this to Cynthia, who\nwas evidently as happy as she could be. Mrs. Gibson, too, was in\nthe seventh heaven of ecstasy, and spoke but little; but what she\ndid say, expressed the highest sentiments in the finest language.\nMr. Gibson was not with them for long, but while he was there he\nwas evidently studying the unconscious Mr. Henderson with his dark\npenetrating eyes. Mr. Henderson behaved exactly as he ought to have\ndone to everybody: respectful to Mr. Gibson, deferential to Mrs.\nGibson, friendly to Molly, devoted to Cynthia.\n\nThe next time Mr. Gibson found Molly alone, he began,--\"Well! and how\ndo you like the new relation that is to be?\"\n\n\"It's difficult to say. I think he's very nice in all his bits,\nbut--rather dull on the whole.\"\n\n\"I think him perfection,\" said Mr. Gibson, to Molly's surprise;\nbut in an instant afterwards she saw that he had been speaking\nironically. He went on. \"I don't wonder she preferred him to Roger\nHamley. Such scents! such gloves! And then his hair and his cravat!\"\n\n\"Now, papa, you're not fair. He is a great deal more than that. One\ncould see that he had very good feeling; and he is very handsome, and\nvery much attached to her.\"\n\n\"So was Roger. However, I must confess I shall be only too glad to\nhave her married. She's a girl who'll always have some love-affair on\nhand, and will always be apt to slip through a man's fingers if he\ndoesn't look sharp; as I was saying to Roger--\"\n\n\"You have seen him, then, since he was here?\"\n\n\"Met him in the street.\"\n\n\"How was he?\"\n\n\"I don't suppose he'd been going through the pleasantest thing in\nthe world; but he'll get over it before long. He spoke with sense\nand resignation, and didn't say much about it; but one could see\nthat he was feeling it pretty sharply. He's had three months to\nthink it over, remember. The Squire, I should guess, is showing more\nindignation. He is boiling over, that any one should reject his son!\nThe enormity of the sin never seems to have been apparent to him\ntill now, when he sees how Roger is affected by it. Indeed, with the\nexception of myself, I don't know one reasonable father; eh, Molly?\"\n\nWhatever else Mr. Henderson might be, he was an impatient lover; he\nwanted to marry Cynthia directly--next week--the week after; at any\nrate before the long vacation, so that they could go abroad at once.\nTrousseaux, and preliminary ceremonies, he gave to the winds. Mr.\nGibson, generous as usual, called Cynthia aside a morning or two\nafter her engagement, and put a hundred-pound note into her hands.\n\n\"There! that's to pay your expenses to Russia and back. I hope you'll\nfind your pupils obedient.\"\n\nTo his surprise, and rather to his discomfiture, Cynthia threw her\narms round his neck and kissed him.\n\n\"You are the kindest person I know,\" said she; \"and I don't know how\nto thank you in words.\"\n\n\"If you tumble my shirt-collars again in that way, I'll charge you\nfor the washing. Just now, too, when I'm trying so hard to be trim\nand elegant, like your Mr. Henderson.\"\n\n\"But you do like him, don't you?\" said Cynthia, pleadingly. \"He does\nso like you.\"\n\n\"Of course. We're all angels just now, and you're an arch-angel. I\nhope he'll wear as well as Roger.\"\n\nCynthia looked grave. \"That was a very silly affair,\" she said. \"We\nwere two as unsuitable people--\"\n\n\"It has ended, and that's enough. Besides, I've no more time to\nwaste; and there's your smart young man coming here in all haste.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Kirkpatrick sent all manner of congratulations; and\nMrs. Gibson, in a private letter, assured Mrs. Kirkpatrick that\nher ill-timed confidence about Roger should be considered as quite\nprivate. For as soon as Mr. Henderson had made his appearance in\nHollingford, she had written a second letter, entreating them not to\nallude to anything she might have said in her first; which she said\nwas written in such excitement on discovering the real state of her\ndaughter's affections, that she had hardly known what she had said,\nand had exaggerated some things, and misunderstood others: all\nthat she did know now was, that Mr. Henderson had just proposed to\nCynthia, and was accepted, and that they were as happy as the day\nwas long, and (\"excuse the vanity of a mother,\") made a most lovely\ncouple. So Mr. and Mrs. Kirkpatrick wrote back an equally agreeable\nletter, praising Mr. Henderson, admiring Cynthia, and generally\ncongratulatory; insisting into the bargain that the marriage should\ntake place from their house in Hyde Park Street, and that Mr. and\nMrs. Gibson and Molly should all come up and pay them a visit. There\nwas a little postscript at the end. \"Surely you do not mean the\nfamous traveller, Hamley, about whose discoveries all our scientific\nmen are so much excited. You speak of him as a young Hamley, who went\nto Africa. Answer this question, pray, for Helen is most anxious to\nknow.\" This P.S. being in Helen's handwriting. In her exultation\nat the general success of everything, and desire for sympathy, Mrs.\nGibson read parts of this letter to Molly; the postscript among the\nrest. It made a deeper impression on Molly than even the proposed\nkindness of the visit to London.\n\nThere were some family consultations; but the end of them all was\nthat the Kirkpatrick invitation was accepted. There were many small\nreasons for this, which were openly acknowledged; but there was\none general and unspoken wish to have the ceremony performed out\nof the immediate neighbourhood of the two men whom Cynthia had\npreviously--rejected; that was the word now to be applied to her\ntreatment of them. So Molly was ordered and enjoined and entreated\nto become strong as soon as possible, in order that her health might\nnot prevent her attending the marriage; Mr. Gibson himself, though he\nthought it his duty to damp the exultant anticipations of his wife\nand her daughter, being not at all averse to the prospect of going\nto London, and seeing half-a-dozen old friends, and many scientific\nexhibitions, independently of the very fair amount of liking which he\nhad for his host, Mr. Kirkpatrick himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII.\n\nBRIDAL VISITS AND ADIEUX.\n\n\nThe whole town of Hollingford came to congratulate and inquire into\nparticulars. Some indeed--Mrs. Goodenough at the head of this class\nof malcontents--thought that they were defrauded of their right to\na fine show by Cynthia's being married in London. Even Lady Cumnor\nwas moved into action. She, who had hardly ever paid calls \"out of\nher own sphere,\" who had only once been to see \"Clare\" in her own\nhouse--she came to congratulate after her fashion. Maria had only\njust time to run up into the drawing-room one morning, and say,--\n\n\"Please, ma'am, the great carriage from the Towers is coming up to\nthe gate, and my lady the Countess is sitting inside.\" It was but\neleven o'clock, and Mrs. Gibson would have been indignant at any\ncommoner who had ventured to call at such an untimely hour, but in\nthe case of the Peerage the rules of domestic morality were relaxed.\n\nThe family \"stood at arms,\" as it were, till Lady Cumnor appeared in\nthe drawing-room; and then she had to be settled in the best chair,\nand the light adjusted before anything like conversation began. She\nwas the first to speak; and Lady Harriet, who had begun a few words\nto Molly, dropped into silence.\n\n\"I have been taking Mary--Lady Cuxhaven--to the railway station on\nthis new line between Birmingham and London, and I thought I would\ncome on here, and offer you my congratulations. Clare, which is\nthe young lady?\"--putting up her glasses, and looking at Cynthia\nand Molly, who were dressed pretty much alike. \"I did not think it\nwould be amiss to give you a little advice, my dear,\" said she, when\nCynthia had been properly pointed out to her as bride elect. \"I\nhave heard a good deal about you; and I am only too glad, for your\nmother's sake,--your mother is a very worthy woman, and did her duty\nvery well while she was in our family--I am truly rejoiced, I say,\nto hear that you are going to make so creditable a marriage. I hope\nit will efface your former errors of conduct--which, we will hope,\nwere but trivial in reality--and that you will live to be a comfort\nto your mother,--for whom both Lord Cumnor and I entertain a very\nsincere regard. But you must conduct yourself with discretion in\nwhatever state of life it pleases God to place you, whether married\nor single. You must reverence your husband, and conform to his\nopinion in all things. Look up to him as your head, and do nothing\nwithout consulting him.\"--It was as well that Lord Cumnor was\nnot amongst the audience; or he might have compared precept with\npractice.--\"Keep strict accounts; and remember your station in life.\nI understand that Mr.--\" looking about for some help as to the name\nshe had forgotten--\"Anderson--Henderson is in the law. Although there\nis a general prejudice against attorneys, I have known of two or\nthree who were very respectable men; and I am sure Mr. Henderson is\none, or your good mother and our old friend Gibson would not have\nsanctioned the engagement.\"\n\n\"He is a barrister,\" put in Cynthia, unable to restrain herself any\nlonger. \"Barrister-at-law.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes. Attorney-at-law. Barrister-at-law. I understand without\nyour speaking so loud, my dear. What was I going to say before you\ninterrupted me? When you have been a little in society you will find\nthat it is reckoned bad manners to interrupt. I had a great deal more\nto say to you, and you have put it all out of my head. There was\nsomething else your father wanted me to ask--what was it, Harriet?\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean about Mr. Hamley?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! we are intending to have the house full of Lord\nHollingford's friends next month, and Lord Cumnor is particularly\nanxious to secure Mr. Hamley.\"\n\n\"The Squire?\" asked Mrs. Gibson in some surprise. Lady Cumnor bowed\nslightly, as much as to say, \"If you did not interrupt me I should\nexplain.\"\n\n\"The famous traveller--the scientific Mr. Hamley, I mean. I imagine\nhe is son to the Squire. Lord Hollingford knows him well; but when we\nasked him before, he declined coming, and assigned no reason.\"\n\nHad Roger indeed been asked to the Towers and declined? Mrs. Gibson\ncould not understand it. Lady Cumnor went on--\n\n\"Now this time we are particularly anxious to secure him, and my\nson Lord Hollingford will not return to England until the very week\nbefore the Duke of Atherstone is coming to us. I believe Mr. Gibson\nis very intimate with Mr. Hamley; do you think he could induce him to\nfavour us with his company?\"\n\nAnd this from the proud Lady Cumnor; and the object of it Roger\nHamley, whom she had all but turned out of her drawing-room two years\nago for calling at an untimely hour; and whom Cynthia had turned out\nof her heart. Mrs. Gibson was surprised, and could only murmur out\nthat she was sure Mr. Gibson would do all that her ladyship wished.\n\n\"Thank you. You know me well enough to be aware that I am not the\nperson, nor is the Towers the house, to go about soliciting guests.\nBut in this instance I bend my head; high rank should always be the\nfirst to honour those who have distinguished themselves by art or\nscience.\"\n\n\"Besides, mamma,\" said Lady Harriet, \"papa was saying that the\nHamleys have been on their land since before the Conquest; while we\nonly came into the county a century ago; and there is a tale that\nthe first Cumnor began his fortune through selling tobacco in King\nJames's reign.\"\n\nIf Lady Cumnor did not exactly shift her trumpet and take snuff\nthere on the spot, she behaved in an equivalent manner. She began\na low-toned but nevertheless authoritative conversation with Clare\nabout the details of the wedding, which lasted until she thought it\nfit to go, when she abruptly plucked Lady Harriet up, and carried\nher off in the very midst of a description she was giving to Cynthia\nabout the delights of Spa, which was to be one of the resting-places\nof the newly-married couple on their wedding-tour.\n\nNevertheless she prepared a handsome present for the bride: a Bible\nand a Prayer-book bound in velvet with silver-clasps; and also a\ncollection of household account-books, at the beginning of which Lady\nCumnor wrote down with her own hand the proper weekly allowance of\nbread, butter, eggs, meat, and groceries per head, with the London\nprices of the articles, so that the most inexperienced housekeeper\nmight ascertain whether her expenditure exceeded her means, as she\nexpressed herself in the note which she sent with the handsome, dull\npresent.\n\n\"If you are driving into Hollingford, Harriet, perhaps you will take\nthese books to Miss Kirkpatrick,\" said Lady Cumnor, after she had\nsealed her note with all the straightness and correctness befitting\na countess of her immaculate character. \"I understand they are\nall going up to London to-morrow for this wedding, in spite of\nwhat I said to Clare of the duty of being married in one's own\nparish-church. She told me at the time that she entirely agreed\nwith me, but that her husband had such a strong wish for a visit to\nLondon, that she did not know how she could oppose him consistently\nwith her wifely duty. I advised her to repeat to him my reasons for\nthinking that they would be ill-advised to have the marriage in town;\nbut I am afraid she has been overruled. That was her one great fault\nwhen she lived with us; she was always so yielding, and never knew\nhow to say 'No.'\"\n\n\"Mamma!\" said Lady Harriet, with a little sly coaxing in her tone.\n\"Do you think you would have been so fond of her, if she had opposed\nyou, and said 'No,' when you wished her to say 'Yes?'\"\n\n\"To be sure I should, my dear. I like everybody to have an opinion of\ntheir own; only when my opinions are based on thought and experience,\nwhich few people have had equal opportunities of acquiring, I think\nit is but proper deference in others to allow themselves to be\nconvinced. In fact, I think it is only obstinacy which keeps them\nfrom acknowledging that they are. I am not a despot, I hope?\" she\nasked, with some anxiety.\n\n\"If you are, dear mamma,\" said Lady Harriet, kissing the stern\nuplifted face very fondly, \"I like a despotism better than a\nrepublic, and I must be very despotic over my ponies, for it's\nalready getting very late for my drive round by Ash-holt.\"\n\nBut when she arrived at the Gibsons', she was detained so long there\nby the state of the family, that she had to give up her going to\nAsh-holt.\n\nMolly was sitting in the drawing-room pale and trembling, and keeping\nherself quiet only by a strong effort. She was the only person there\nwhen Lady Harriet entered: the room was all in disorder, strewed with\npresents and paper, and pasteboard boxes, and half-displayed articles\nof finery.\n\n\"You look like Marius sitting amidst the ruins of Carthage, my dear!\nWhat's the matter? Why have you got on that wobegone face? This\nmarriage isn't broken off, is it? Though nothing would surprise me\nwhere the beautiful Cynthia is concerned.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! that's all right. But I have caught a fresh cold, and papa\nsays he thinks I had better not go to the wedding.\"\n\n\"Poor little one! And it's the first visit to London too!\"\n\n\"Yes. But what I most care for is the not being with Cynthia to\nthe last; and then, papa\"--she stopped, for she could hardly go\non without open crying, and she did not want to do that. Then she\ncleared her voice. \"Papa,\" she continued, \"has so looked forward to\nthis holiday,--and seeing--and--, and going--oh! I can't tell you\nwhere; but he has quite a list of people and sights to be seen,--and\nnow he says he should not be comfortable to leave me all alone for\nmore than three days,--two for travelling, and one for the wedding.\"\nJust then Mrs. Gibson came in, ruffled too after her fashion, though\nthe presence of Lady Harriet was wonderfully smoothing.\n\n\"My dear Lady Harriet--how kind of you! Ah, yes, I see this poor\nunfortunate child has been telling you of her ill-luck; just when\neverything was going on so beautifully; I'm sure it was that open\nwindow at your back, Molly,--you know you would persist that it could\ndo you no harm, and now you see the mischief! I'm sure I shan't be\nable to enjoy myself--and at my only child's wedding too--without\nyou; for I can't think of leaving you without Maria. I would rather\nsacrifice anything myself than think of you, uncared for, and dismal\nat home.\"\n\n\"I am sure Molly is as sorry as any one,\" said Lady Harriet.\n\n\"No. I don't think she is,\" said Mrs. Gibson, with happy disregard of\nthe chronology of events, \"or she would not have sate with her back\nto an open window the day before yesterday, when I told her not. But\nit can't be helped now. Papa too--but it is my duty to make the best\nof everything, and look at the cheerful side of life. I wish I could\npersuade her to do the same\" (turning and addressing Lady Harriet).\n\"But, you see, it is a great mortification to a girl of her age to\nlose her first visit to London.\"\n\n\"It is not that,\" began Molly; but Lady Harriet made her a little\nsign to be silent while she herself spoke.\n\n\"Now, Clare! you and I can manage it all, I think, if you will but\nhelp me in a plan I've got in my head. Mr. Gibson shall stay as long\nas ever he can in London; and Molly shall be well cared for, and have\nsome change of air and scene too, which is really what she needs\nas much as anything, in my poor opinion. I can't spirit her to the\nwedding and give her a sight of London; but I can carry her off to\nthe Towers, and nurse her myself; and send daily bulletins up to\nLondon, so that Mr. Gibson may feel quite at ease, and stay with you\nas long as you like. What do you say to it, Clare?\"\n\n\"Oh, I could not go,\" said Molly; \"I should only be a trouble to\neverybody.\"\n\n\"Nobody asked you for your opinion, little one. If we wise elders\ndecide that you are to go, you must submit in silence.\"\n\nMeanwhile Mrs. Gibson was rapidly balancing advantages and\ndisadvantages. Amongst the latter, jealousy came in predominant.\nAmongst the former,--it would sound well; Maria could then accompany\nCynthia and herself as \"their maid;\" Mr. Gibson would stay longer\nwith her, and it was always desirable to have a man at her beck and\ncall in such a place as London; besides that, this identical man was\ngentlemanly and good-looking, and a favourite with her prosperous\nbrother-in-law. The \"ayes\" had it.\n\n\"What a charming plan! I cannot think of anything kinder or\npleasanter for this poor darling. Only--what will Lady Cumnor say? I\nam modest for my family as much as for myself. She won't--\"\n\n\"You know mamma's sense of hospitality is never more gratified than\nwhen the house is quite full; and papa is just like her. Besides, she\nis fond of you, and grateful to our good Mr. Gibson, and will be fond\nof you, little one, when she knows you as I do.\"\n\nMolly's heart sank within her at the prospect. Except on the one\nevening of her father's wedding-day, she had never even seen the\noutside of the Towers since that unlucky day in her childhood\nwhen she had fallen asleep on Clare's bed. She had a dread of the\ncountess, a dislike to the house; only it seemed as if it was a\nsolution to the problem of what to do with her, which had been\nperplexing every one all morning, and so evidently that it had\ncaused her much distress. She kept silence, though her lips quivered\nfrom time to time. Oh, if Miss Brownings had not chosen this very\ntime of all others to pay their monthly visit to Miss Hornblower!\nIf she could only have gone there, and lived with them in their\nquaint, quiet, primitive way, instead of having to listen, without\nremonstrance, to hearing plans discussed about her, as if she was an\ninanimate chattel!\n\n\"She shall have the south pink room, opening out of mine by one door,\nyou remember; and the dressing-room shall be made into a cosy little\nsitting-room for her, in case she likes to be by herself. Parkes\nshall attend upon her, and I'm sure Mr. Gibson must know Parkes's\npowers as a nurse by this time. We shall have all manner of agreeable\npeople in the house to amuse her downstairs; and when she has got rid\nof this access of cold, I will drive her out every day, and write\ndaily bulletins, as I said. Pray tell Mr. Gibson all that, and let it\nbe considered as settled. I will come for her in the close carriage\nto-morrow, at eleven. And now may I see the lovely bride-elect, and\ngive her mamma's present, and my own good wishes?\"\n\nSo Cynthia came in, and demurely received the very proper present,\nand the equally correct congratulations, without testifying any very\ngreat delight or gratitude at either; for she was quite quick enough\nto detect there was no great afflux of affection accompanying either.\nBut when she heard her mother quickly recapitulating all the details\nof the plan for Molly, Cynthia's eyes did sparkle with gladness; and\nalmost to Lady Harriet's surprise, she thanked her as if she had\nconferred a personal favour upon her, Cynthia. Lady Harriet saw,\ntoo, that in a very quiet way, she had taken Molly's hand, and was\nholding it all the time, as if loth to think of their approaching\nseparation--somehow, she and Lady Harriet were brought nearer\ntogether by this little action than they had ever been before.\n\nIf Molly had hoped that her father might have raised some obstacles\nto the project, she was disappointed. But, indeed, she was satisfied\nwhen she perceived how he seemed to feel that, by placing her under\nthe care of Lady Harriet and Parkes, he should be relieved from\nanxiety; and how he spoke of this change of air and scene as being\nthe very thing he had been wishing to secure for her; country air,\nand absence of excitement as this would be; for the only other place\nwhere he could have secured her these advantages, and at the same\ntime sent her as an invalid, was to Hamley Hall; and he dreaded the\nassociations there with the beginning of her present illness.\n\nSo Molly was driven off in state the next day, leaving her own home\nall in confusion with the assemblage of boxes and trunks in the hall,\nand all the other symptoms of the approaching departure of the family\nfor London and the wedding. All the morning Cynthia had been with\nher in her room, attending to the arrangement of Molly's clothes,\ninstructing her what to wear with what, and rejoicing over the pretty\nsmartnesses, which, having been prepared for her as bridesmaid, were\nnow to serve as adornments for her visit to the Towers. Both Molly\nand Cynthia spoke about dress as if it was the very object of their\nlives; for each dreaded the introduction of more serious subjects;\nCynthia more for Molly than herself. Only when the carriage was\nannounced, and Molly was preparing to go downstairs, Cynthia said,--\n\n\"I am not going to thank you, Molly, or to tell you how I love you.\"\n\n\"Don't,\" said Molly, \"I can't bear it.\"\n\n\"Only you know you are to be my first visitor, and if you wear brown\nribbons to a green gown, I'll turn you out of the house!\" So they\nparted. Mr. Gibson was there in the hall to hand Molly in. He had\nridden hard; and was now giving her two or three last injunctions as\nto her health.\n\n\"Think of us on Thursday,\" said he. \"I declare I don't know which of\nher three lovers she mayn't summon at the very last moment to act the\npart of bridegroom. I'm determined to be surprised at nothing; and\nwill give her away with a good grace to whoever comes.\"\n\nThey drove away, and until they were out of sight of the house, Molly\nhad enough to do to keep returning the kisses of the hand wafted to\nher by her stepmother out of the drawing-room window, while at the\nsame time her eyes were fixed on a white handkerchief fluttering out\nof the attic from which she herself had watched Roger's departure\nnearly two years before. What changes time had brought!\n\nWhen Molly arrived at the Towers she was convoyed into Lady Cumnor's\npresence by Lady Harriet. It was a mark of respect to the lady of the\nhouse, which the latter knew that her mother would expect; but she\nwas anxious to get it over, and take Molly up into the room which she\nhad been so busy arranging for her. Lady Cumnor was, however, very\nkind, if not positively gracious.\n\n\"You are Lady Harriet's visitor, my dear,\" said she, \"and I hope she\nwill take good care of you. If not, come and complain of her to me.\"\nIt was as near an approach to a joke as Lady Cumnor ever perpetrated,\nand from it Lady Harriet knew that her mother was pleased by Molly's\nmanners and appearance.\n\n\"Now, here you are in your own kingdom; and into this room I shan't\nventure to come without express permission. Here is the last new\n_Quarterly_, and the last new novel, and the last new Essays. Now, my\ndear, you needn't come down again to-day unless you like it. Parkes\nshall bring you everything and anything you want. You must get strong\nas fast as you can, for all sorts of great and famous people are\ncoming to-morrow and the next day, and I think you'll like to see\nthem. Suppose for to-day you only come down to lunch, and if you\nlike it, in the evening. Dinner is such a wearily long meal, if one\nisn't strong; and you wouldn't miss much, for there's only my cousin\nCharles in the house now, and he is the personification of sensible\nsilence.\"\n\nMolly was only too glad to allow Lady Harriet to decide everything\nfor her. It had begun to rain, and was altogether a gloomy day for\nAugust; and there was a small fire of scented wood burning cheerfully\nin the sitting-room appropriated to her. High up, it commanded a\nwide and pleasant view over the park, and from it could be seen the\nspire of Hollingford Church, which gave Molly a pleasant idea of\nneighbourhood to home. She was left alone, lying on the sofa--books\nnear her, wood crackling and blazing, wafts of wind bringing the\nbeating rain against the window, and so enhancing the sense of indoor\ncomfort by the outdoor contrast. Parkes was unpacking for her. Lady\nHarriet had introduced Parkes to Molly by saying, \"Now, Molly, this\nis Mrs. Parkes, the only person I am ever afraid of. She scolds me if\nI dirty myself with my paints, just as if I was a little child; and\nshe makes me go to bed when I want to sit up,\"--Parkes was smiling\ngrimly all the time;--\"so to get rid of her tyranny I give her you as\nvictim. Parkes, rule over Miss Gibson with a rod of iron; make her\neat and drink, and rest and sleep, and dress as you think wisest and\nbest.\"\n\nParkes had begun her reign by putting Molly on the sofa, and saying,\n\"If you will give me your keys, Miss, I will unpack your things, and\nlet you know when it is time for me to arrange your hair, preparatory\nto luncheon.\" For if Lady Harriet used familiar colloquialisms from\ntime to time, she certainly had not learnt it from Parkes, who piqued\nherself on the correctness of her language.\n\nWhen Molly went down to lunch she found \"cousin Charles,\" with his\naunt, Lady Cumnor. He was a certain Sir Charles Morton, the son of\nLady Cumnor's only sister: a plain, sandy-haired man of thirty-five\nor so; immensely rich, very sensible, awkward, and reserved. He had\nhad a chronic attachment, of many years' standing, to his cousin,\nLady Harriet, who did not care for him in the least, although it\nwas the marriage very earnestly desired for her by her mother. Lady\nHarriet was, however, on friendly terms with him, ordered him about,\nand told him what to do, and what to leave undone, without having\neven a doubt as to the willingness of his obedience. She had given\nhim his cue about Molly.\n\n\"Now, Charles, the girl wants to be interested and amused without\nhaving to take any trouble for herself; she is too delicate to be\nvery active either in mind or body. Just look after her when the\nhouse gets full, and place her where she can hear and see everything\nand everybody, without any fuss and responsibility.\"\n\nSo Sir Charles began this day at luncheon by taking Molly under his\nquiet protection. He did not say much to her; but what he did say was\nthoroughly friendly and sympathetic; and Molly began, as he and Lady\nHarriet intended that she should, to have a kind of pleasant reliance\nupon him. Then in the evening while the rest of the family were at\ndinner--after Molly's tea and hour of quiet repose, Parkes came and\ndressed her in some of the new clothes prepared for the Kirkpatrick\nvisit, and did her hair in some new and pretty way, so that when\nMolly looked at herself in the cheval-glass, she scarcely knew the\nelegant reflection to be that of herself. She was fetched down by\nLady Harriet into the great long formidable drawing-room, which as\nan interminable place of pacing, had haunted her dreams ever since\nher childhood. At the further end sat Lady Cumnor at her tapestry\nwork; the light of fire and candle seemed all concentrated on that\none bright part where presently Lady Harriet made tea, and Lord\nCumnor went to sleep, and Sir Charles read passages aloud from the\n_Edinburgh Review_ to the three ladies at their work.\n\nWhen Molly went to bed she was constrained to admit that staying at\nthe Towers as a visitor was rather pleasant than otherwise; and she\ntried to reconcile old impressions with new ones, until she fell\nasleep. There was another comparatively quiet day before the expected\nguests began to arrive in the evening. Lady Harriet took Molly a\ndrive in her little pony-carriage; and for the first time for many\nweeks Molly began to feel the delightful spring of returning health;\nthe dance of youthful spirits in the fresh air cleared by the\nprevious day's rain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVIII.\n\nREVIVING HOPES AND BRIGHTENING PROSPECTS.\n\n\n\"If you can without fatigue, dear, do come down to dinner to-day;\nyou'll then see the people one by one as they appear, instead of\nhaving to encounter a crowd of strangers. Hollingford will be here\ntoo. I hope you'll find it pleasant.\"\n\nSo Molly made her appearance at dinner that day; and got to know, by\nsight at least, some of the most distinguished of the visitors at the\nTowers. The next day was Thursday, Cynthia's wedding-day; bright and\nfine in the country, whatever it might be in London. And there were\nseveral letters from the home-people awaiting Molly when she came\ndownstairs to the late breakfast. For, every day, every hour, she was\ngaining strength and health, and she was unwilling to continue her\ninvalid habits any longer than was necessary. She looked so much\nbetter that Sir Charles noticed it to Lady Harriet; and several of\nthe visitors spoke of her this morning as a very pretty, lady-like,\nand graceful girl. This was Thursday; on Friday, as Lady Harriet had\ntold her, some visitors from the more immediate neighbourhood were\nexpected to stay over the Sunday; but she had not mentioned their\nnames, and when Molly went down into the drawing-room before dinner,\nshe was almost startled by perceiving Roger Hamley in the centre of\na group of gentlemen, who were all talking together eagerly, and, as\nit seemed to her, making him the object of their attention. He made\na hitch in his conversation, lost the precise meaning of a question\naddressed to him, answered it rather hastily, and made his way\nto where Molly was sitting, a little behind Lady Harriet. He had\nheard that she was staying at the Towers, but he was almost as much\nsurprised by hers, as she was by his unexpected appearance, for he\nhad only seen her once or twice since his return from Africa, and\nthen in the guise of an invalid. Now in her pretty evening dress,\nwith her hair beautifully dressed, her delicate complexion flushed a\nlittle with timidity, yet her movements and manners bespeaking quiet\nease, Roger hardly recognized her, although he acknowledged her\nidentity. He began to feel that admiring deference which most young\nmen experience when conversing with a very pretty girl: a sort of\ndesire to obtain her good opinion in a manner very different to his\nold familiar friendliness. He was annoyed when Sir Charles, whose\nespecial charge she still was, came up to take her in to dinner. He\ncould not quite understand the smile of mutual intelligence that\npassed between the two, each being aware of Lady Harriet's plan\nof sheltering Molly from the necessity of talking, and acting in\nconformity with her wishes as much as with their own. Roger found\nhimself puzzling, and watching them from time to time during\ndinner. Again in the evening he sought her out, but found her again\npre-occupied with one of the young men staying in the house, who had\nhad the advantage of two days of mutual interest, and acquaintance\nwith the daily events and jokes and anxieties of the family circle.\nMolly could not help wishing to break off all this trivial talk and\nto make room for Roger: she had so much to ask him about everything\nat the Hall; he was, and had been such a stranger to them all for\nthese last two months, and more. But though each wanted to speak to\nthe other more than to any one else in the room, it so happened that\neverything seemed to conspire to prevent it. Lord Hollingford carried\noff Roger to the cluster of middle-aged men; he was wanted to give\nhis opinion upon some scientific subject. Mr. Ernulphus Watson,\nthe young man referred to above, kept his place by Molly, as the\nprettiest girl in the room, and almost dazed her by his never-ceasing\nflow of clever small-talk. She looked so tired and pale at last that\nthe ever-watchful Lady Harriet sent Sir Charles to the rescue, and\nafter a few words with Lady Harriet, Roger saw Molly quietly leave\nthe room; and a sentence or two which he heard Lady Harriet address\nto her cousin made him know that it was for the night. Those\nsentences might bear another interpretation than the obvious one.\n\n\"Really, Charles, considering that she is in your charge, I think you\nmight have saved her from the chatter and patter of Mr. Watson; I can\nonly stand it when I am in the strongest health.\"\n\nWhy was Molly in Sir Charles's charge? why? Then Roger remembered\nmany little things that might serve to confirm the fancy he had got\ninto his head; and he went to bed puzzled and annoyed. It seemed\nto him such an incongruous, hastily-got-up sort of engagement, if\nengagement it really was. On Saturday they were more fortunate: they\nhad a long _tête-à-tête_ in the most public place in the house--on a\nsofa in the hall where Molly was resting at Lady Harriet's command\nbefore going upstairs after a walk. Roger was passing through, and\nsaw her, and came to her. Standing before her, and making pretence of\nplaying with the gold-fish in a great marble basin close at hand,--\n\n\"I was very unlucky,\" said he. \"I wanted to get near you last night,\nbut it was quite impossible. You were so busy talking to Mr. Watson,\nuntil Sir Charles Morton came and carried you off--with such an air\nof authority! Have you known him long?\"\n\nNow this was not at all the manner in which Roger had pre-determined\nthat he would speak of Sir Charles to Molly; but the words came out\nin spite of himself.\n\n\"No! not long. I never saw him before I came here--on Tuesday. But\nLady Harriet told him to see that I did not get tired, for I wanted\nto come down; but you know I have not been strong. He is a cousin of\nLady Harriet's, and does all she tells him to do.\"\n\n\"Oh! he is not handsome; but I believe he is a very sensible man.\"\n\n\"Yes! I should think so. He is so silent though, that I can hardly\njudge.\"\n\n\"He bears a very high character in the county,\" said Roger, willing\nnow to give him his full due.\n\nMolly stood up.\n\n\"I must go upstairs,\" she said; \"I only sate down here for a minute\nor two because Lady Harriet bade me.\"\n\n\"Stop a little longer,\" said he. \"This is really the pleasantest\nplace; this basin of water-lilies gives one the idea, if not the\nsensation, of coolness; besides--it seems so long since I saw you,\nand I have a message from my father to give you. He is very angry\nwith you.\"\n\n\"Angry with me?\" said Molly in surprise.\n\n\"Yes! He heard that you had come here for change of air; and he was\noffended that you hadn't come to us--to the Hall, instead. He said\nthat you should have remembered old friends!\"\n\nMolly took all this quite gravely, and did not at first notice the\nsmile on his face.\n\n\"Oh! I am so sorry!\" said she. \"But will you please tell him how it\nall happened. Lady Harriet called the very day when it was settled\nthat I was not to go to--\" Cynthia's wedding, she was going to add,\nbut she suddenly stopped short, and, blushing deeply, changed the\nexpression, \"go to London, and she planned it all in a minute, and\nconvinced mamma and papa, and had her own way. There was really no\nresisting her.\"\n\n\"I think you will have to tell all this to my father yourself if you\nmean to make your peace. Why can you not come on to the Hall when you\nleave the Towers?\"\n\nTo go in the cool manner suggested from one house to another, after\nthe manner of a royal progress, was not at all according to Molly's\nprimitive home-keeping notions. She made answer,--\n\n\"I should like it very much, some time. But I must go home first.\nThey will want me more than ever now--\"\n\nAgain she felt herself touching on a sore subject, and stopped short.\nRoger became annoyed at her so constantly conjecturing what he must\nbe feeling on the subject of Cynthia's marriage. With sympathetic\nperception she had discerned that the idea must give him pain; and\nperhaps she also knew that he would dislike to show the pain; but she\nhad not the presence of mind or ready wit to give a skilful turn to\nthe conversation. All this annoyed Roger, he could hardly tell why.\nHe determined to take the metaphorical bull by the horns. Until that\nwas done, his footing with Molly would always be insecure; as it\nalways is between two friends, who mutually avoid a subject to which\ntheir thoughts perpetually recur.\n\n\"Ah, yes!\" said he. \"Of course you must be of double importance now\nMiss Kirkpatrick has left you. I saw her marriage in _The Times_\nyesterday.\"\n\nHis tone of voice was changed in speaking of her, but her name had\nbeen named between them, and that was the great thing to accomplish.\n\n\"Still,\" he continued, \"I think I must urge my father's claim for a\nshort visit, and all the more, because I can really see the apparent\nimprovement in your health since I came,--only yesterday. Besides,\nMolly,\" it was the old familiar Roger of former days who spoke now,\n\"I think you could help us at home. Aimée is shy and awkward with my\nfather, and he has never taken quite kindly to her,--yet I know they\nwould like and value each other, if some one could but bring them\ntogether,--and it would be such a comfort to me if this could take\nplace before I have to leave.\"\n\n\"To leave--are you going away again?\"\n\n\"Yes. Have you not heard? I didn't complete my engagement. I'm going\nagain in September for six months.\"\n\n\"I remember. But somehow I fancied--you seemed to have settled down\ninto the old ways at the Hall.\"\n\n\"So my father appears to think. But it is not likely I shall ever\nmake it my home again; and that is partly the reason why I want my\nfather to adopt the notion of Aimée's living with him. Ah, here are\nall the people coming back from their walk. However, I shall see you\nagain; perhaps this afternoon we may get a little quiet time, for I\nhave a great deal to consult you about.\"\n\nThey separated then, and Molly went upstairs very happy, very full\nand warm at her heart; it was so pleasant to have Roger talking to\nher in this way, like a friend; she had once thought that she could\nnever look upon the great brown-bearded celebrity in the former light\nof almost brotherly intimacy, but now it was all coming right. There\nwas no opportunity for renewed confidences that afternoon. Molly went\na quiet decorous drive as fourth with two dowagers and one spinster;\nbut it was very pleasant to think that she should see him again at\ndinner, and again to-morrow. On the Sunday evening, as they all were\nsitting and loitering on the lawn before dinner, Roger went on with\nwhat he had to say about the position of his sister-in-law in his\nfather's house: the mutual bond between the mother and grandfather\nbeing the child; who was also, through jealousy, the bone of\ncontention and the severance. There were many little details to be\ngiven in order to make Molly quite understand the difficulty of the\nsituations on both sides; and the young man and the girl became\nabsorbed in what they were talking about, and wandered away into the\nshade of the long avenue. Lady Harriet separated herself from a group\nand came up to Lord Hollingford, who was sauntering a little apart,\nand putting her arm within his with the familiarity of a favourite\nsister, she said,--\n\n\"Don't you think that your pattern young man, and my favourite young\nwoman, are finding out each other's good qualities?\"\n\nHe had not been observing as she had been.\n\n\"Who do you mean?\" said he.\n\n\"Look along the avenue; who are those?\"\n\n\"Mr. Hamley and--is it not Miss Gibson? I can't quite make out. Oh!\nif you're letting your fancy run off in that direction, I can tell\nyou it's quite waste of time. Roger Hamley is a man who will soon\nhave an European reputation!\"\n\n\"That's very possible, and yet it doesn't make any difference in my\nopinion. Molly Gibson is capable of appreciating him.\"\n\n\"She is a very pretty, good little country-girl. I don't mean to say\nanything against her, but--\"\n\n\"Remember the Charity Ball; you called her 'unusually intelligent'\nafter you had danced with her there. But, after all, we are like\nthe genie and the fairy in the _Arabian Nights' Entertainment_, who\neach cried up the merits of the Prince Caramalzaman and the Princess\nBadoura.\"\n\n\"Hamley is not a marrying man.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"I know that he has very little private fortune, and I know that\nscience is not a remunerative profession, if profession it can be\ncalled.\"\n\n\"Oh, if that's all--a hundred things may happen--some one may leave\nhim a fortune--or this tiresome little heir that nobody wanted, may\ndie.\"\n\n\"Hush, Harriet, that's the worst of allowing yourself to plan far\nahead for the future; you are sure to contemplate the death of some\none, and to reckon upon the contingency as affecting events.\"\n\n\"As if lawyers were not always doing something of the kind!\"\n\n\"Leave it to those to whom it is necessary. I dislike planning\nmarriages or looking forward to deaths about equally.\"\n\n\"You are getting very prosaic and tiresome, Hollingford!\"\n\n\"Only getting!\" said he smiling; \"I thought you had always looked\nupon me as a tiresome matter-of-fact fellow.\"\n\n\"Now, if you're going to fish for a compliment I am gone. Only\nremember my prophecy when my vision comes to pass; or make a bet,\nand whoever wins shall spend the money on a present to Prince\nCaramalzaman or Princess Badoura, as the case may be.\"\n\nLord Hollingford remembered his sister's words as he heard Roger say\nto Molly as he was leaving the Towers on the following day,--\n\n\"Then I may tell my father that you will come and pay him a visit\nnext week? You don't know what pleasure it will give him.\" He had\nbeen on the point of saying \"will give _us_,\" but he had an instinct\nwhich told him it was as well to consider Molly's promised visit as\nexclusively made to his father.\n\nThe next day Molly went home; she was astonished at herself for\nbeing so sorry to leave the Towers; and found it difficult, if not\nimpossible, to reconcile the long-fixed idea of the house as a place\nwherein to suffer all a child's tortures of dismay and forlornness\nwith her new and fresh conception. She had gained health, she had\nhad pleasure, the faint fragrance of a new and unacknowledged hope\nhad stolen into her life. No wonder that Mr. Gibson was struck with\nthe improvement in her looks, and Mrs. Gibson impressed with her\nincreased grace.\n\n\"Ah, Molly,\" said she, \"it's really wonderful to see what a little\ngood society will do for a girl. Even a week of association with such\npeople as one meets with at the Towers is, as somebody said of a\nlady of rank whose name I have forgotten, 'a polite education in\nitself.' There is something quite different about you--a _je ne\nsais quoi_--that would tell me at once that you have been mingling\nwith the aristocracy. With all her charms, it was what my darling\nCynthia wanted; not that Mr. Henderson thought so, for a more devoted\nlover can hardly be conceived. He absolutely bought her a parure of\ndiamonds. I was obliged to say to him that I had studied to preserve\nher simplicity of taste, and that he must not corrupt her with too\nmuch luxury. But I was rather disappointed at their going off without\na maid. It was the one blemish in the arrangements--the spot in the\nsun. Dear Cynthia, when I think of her, I do assure you, Molly, I\nmake it my nightly prayer that I may be able to find you just such\nanother husband. And all this time you have never told me who you met\nat the Towers?\"\n\nMolly ran over a list of names. Roger Hamley's came last.\n\n\"Upon my word! That young man is pushing his way up!\"\n\n\"The Hamleys are a far older family than the Cumnors,\" said Molly,\nflushing up.\n\n\"Now, Molly, I can't have you democratic. Rank is a great\ndistinction. It is quite enough to have dear papa with democratic\ntendencies. But we won't begin to quarrel. Now that you and I are\nleft alone, we ought to be bosom friends, and I hope we shall be.\nRoger Hamley did not say much about that unfortunate little Osborne\nHamley, I suppose?\"\n\n\"On the contrary, he says his father dotes on the child; and he\nseemed very proud of him, himself.\"\n\n\"I thought the Squire must be getting very much infatuated with\nsomething. I daresay the French mother takes care of that. Why! he\nhas scarcely taken any notice of you for this month or more, and\nbefore that you were everything.\"\n\nIt was about six weeks since Cynthia's engagement had become publicly\nknown, and that might have had something to do with the Squire's\ndesertion, Molly thought. But she said,--\n\n\"The Squire has sent me an invitation to go and stay there next week\nif you have no objection, mamma. They seem to want a companion for\nMrs. Osborne Hamley, who is not very strong.\"\n\n\"I can hardly tell what to say,--I don't like your having to\nassociate with a Frenchwoman of doubtful rank; and I can't bear the\nthought of losing my child--my only daughter now. I did ask Helen\nKirkpatrick, but she can't come for some time; and the house is going\nto be altered. Papa has consented to build me another room at last,\nfor Cynthia and Mr. Henderson will, of course, come and see us;\nwe shall have many more visitors, I expect, and your bedroom will\nmake a capital lumber-room; and Maria wants a week's holiday. I am\nalways so unwilling to put any obstacles in the way of any one's\npleasure,--weakly unwilling, I believe,--but it certainly would be\nvery convenient to have you out of the house for a few days; so, for\nonce, I will waive my own wish for your companionship, and plead your\ncause with papa.\"\n\nMiss Brownings came to call and hear the double batch of news. Mrs.\nGoodenough had called the very day on which they had returned from\nMiss Hornblower's, to tell them the astounding fact of Molly Gibson\nhaving gone on a visit to the Towers; not to come back at night, but\nto sleep there, to be there for two or three days, just as if she\nwas a young lady of quality. So Miss Brownings came to hear all the\ndetails of the wedding from Mrs. Gibson, and the history of Molly's\nvisit at the Towers as well. But Mrs. Gibson did not like this\ndivided interest, and some of her old jealousy of Molly's intimacy at\nthe Towers had returned.\n\n\"Now, Molly,\" said Miss Browning, \"let us hear how you behaved among\nthe great folks. You must not be set up with all their attention;\nremember that they pay it to you for your good father's sake.\"\n\n\"Molly is, I think, quite aware,\" put in Mrs. Gibson, in her most\nsoft and languid tone, \"that she owes her privilege of visiting at\nsuch a house to Lady Cumnor's kind desire to set my mind quite at\nliberty at the time of Cynthia's marriage. As soon as ever I had\nreturned home, Molly came back; indeed, I should not have thought\nit right to let her intrude upon their kindness beyond what was\nabsolutely necessary.\"\n\nMolly felt extremely uncomfortable at all this, though perfectly\naware of the entire inaccuracy of the statement.\n\n\"Well, but, Molly!\" said Miss Browning, \"never mind whether you went\nthere on your own merits, or your worthy father's merits, or Mrs.\nGibson's merits; but tell us what you did when you were there.\"\n\nSo Molly began an account of their sayings and doings, which she\ncould have made far more interesting to Miss Browning and Miss\nPhoebe if she had not been conscious of her stepmother's critical\nlistening. She had to tell it all with a mental squint; the surest\nway to spoil a narration. She was also subject to Mrs. Gibson's\nperpetual corrections of little statements which she knew to be\nfacts. But what vexed her most of all was Mrs. Gibson's last speech\nbefore the Miss Brownings left.\n\n\"Molly has fallen into rambling ways with this visit of hers, of\nwhich she makes so much, as if nobody had ever been in a great house\nbut herself. She is going to Hamley Hall next week,--getting quite\ndissipated, in fact.\"\n\nYet to Mrs. Goodenough, the next caller on the same errand of\ncongratulation, Mrs. Gibson's tone was quite different. There had\nalways been a tacit antagonism between the two, and the conversation\nnow ran as follows:--\n\nMrs. Goodenough began,--\n\n\"Well! Mrs. Gibson, I suppose I must wish you joy of Miss Cynthia's\nmarriage; I should condole with some mothers as had lost their\ndaughters; but you're not one of that sort, I reckon.\"\n\nNow, as Mrs. Gibson was not quite sure to which \"sort\" of mothers the\ngreatest credit was to be attached, she found it a little difficult\nhow to frame her reply.\n\n\"Dear Cynthia!\" she said. \"One can't but rejoice in her happiness!\nAnd yet--\" she ended her sentence by sighing.\n\n\"Ay. She was a young woman as would always have her followers; for,\nto tell the truth, she was as pretty a creature as ever I saw in my\nlife. And all the more she needed skilful guidance. I'm sure I, for\none, am as glad as can be she's done so well by herself. Folks say\nMr. Henderson has a handsome private fortune over and above what he\nmakes by the law.\"\n\n\"There is no fear but that my Cynthia will have everything this world\ncan give!\" said Mrs. Gibson with dignity.\n\n\"Well, well! she was always a bit of a favourite of mine; and as I\nwas saying to my grand-daughter there\" (for she was accompanied by a\nyoung lady, who looked keenly to the prospect of some wedding-cake),\n\"I was never one of those who ran her down and called her a flirt\nand a jilt. I'm glad to hear she's like to be so well off. And now,\nI suppose, you'll be turning your mind to doing something for Miss\nMolly there?\"\n\n\"If you mean by that, doing anything that can, by hastening her\nmarriage, deprive me of the company of one who is like my own child,\nyou are very much mistaken, Mrs. Goodenough. And pray remember,\nI am the last person in the world to match-make. Cynthia made Mr.\nHenderson's acquaintance at her uncle's in London.\"\n\n\"Ay! I thought her cousin was very often ill, and needing her\nnursing, and you were very keen she should be of use. I'm not saying\nbut what it's right in a mother; I'm only putting in a word for Miss\nMolly.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mrs. Goodenough,\" said Molly, half-angry, half-laughing.\n\"When I want to be married, I'll not trouble mamma. I'll look out for\nmyself.\"\n\n\"Molly is becoming so popular, I hardly know how we shall keep her\nat home,\" said Mrs. Gibson. \"I miss her sadly; but, as I said to Mr.\nGibson, let young people have change, and see a little of the world\nwhile they are young. It has been a great advantage to her being at\nthe Towers while so many clever and distinguished people were there.\nI can already see a difference in her tone of conversation: an\nelevation in her choice of subjects. And now she is going to Hamley\nHall. I can assure you I feel quite a proud mother, when I see how\nshe is sought after. And my other daughter--my Cynthia--writing such\nletters from Paris!\"\n\n\"Things is a deal changed since my days, for sure,\" said Mrs.\nGoodenough. \"So, perhaps, I'm no judge. When I was married first, him\nand me went in a postchaise to his father's house, a matter of twenty\nmile off at the outside; and sate down to as good a supper amongst\nhis friends and relations as you'd wish to see. And that was my first\nwedding jaunt. My second was when I better knowed my worth as a\nbride, and thought that now or never I must see London. But I were\nreckoned a very extravagant sort of a body to go so far, and spend\nmy money, though Harry had left me uncommon well off. But now young\nfolks go off to Paris, and think nothing of the cost: and it's well\nif wilful waste don't make woeful want before they die. But I'm\nthankful somewhat is being done for Miss Molly's chances, as I said\nafore. It's not quite what I should have liked to have done for my\nAnnabella though. But times are changed, as I said just now.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIX.\n\nMOLLY GIBSON AT HAMLEY HALL.\n\n\nThe conversation ended there for the time. Wedding-cake and wine were\nbrought in, and it was Molly's duty to serve them out. But those last\nwords of Mrs. Goodenough's tingled in her ears, and she tried to\ninterpret them to her own satisfaction in any way but the obvious\none. And that, too, was destined to be confirmed; for directly after\nMrs. Goodenough took her leave, Mrs. Gibson desired Molly to carry\naway the tray to a table close to an open corner window, where the\nthings might be placed in readiness for any future callers; and\nunderneath this open window went the path from the house-door to the\nroad. Molly heard Mrs. Goodenough saying to her grand-daughter,--\n\n\"That Mrs. Gibson is a deep 'un. There's Mr. Roger Hamley as like as\nnot to have the Hall estate, and she sends Molly a-visiting--\" and\nthen she passed out of hearing. Molly could have burst out crying,\nwith a full sudden conviction of what Mrs. Goodenough had been\nalluding to: her sense of the impropriety of Molly's going to visit\nat the Hall when Roger was at home. To be sure, Mrs. Goodenough was a\ncommonplace, unrefined woman. Mrs. Gibson did not seem to have even\nnoticed the allusion. Mr. Gibson took it all as a matter of course\nthat Molly should go to the Hall as simply now, as she had done\nbefore. Roger had spoken of it in so straightforward a manner as\nshowed he had no conception of its being an impropriety,--this\nvisit,--this visit until now so happy a subject of anticipation.\nMolly felt as if she could never speak to any one of the idea to\nwhich Mrs. Goodenough's words had given rise; as if she could never\nbe the first to suggest the notion of impropriety, which presupposed\nwhat she blushed to think of. Then she tried to comfort herself by\nreasoning. If it had been wrong, forward, or indelicate, really\nimproper in the slightest degree, who would have been so ready as her\nfather to put his veto upon it? But reasoning was of no use after\nMrs. Goodenough's words had put fancies into Molly's head. The more\nshe bade these fancies begone the more they answered her (as Daniel\nO'Rourke did the man in the moon, when he bade Dan get off his seat\non the sickle, and go into empty space):--\"The more ye ask us the\nmore we won't stir.\" One may smile at a young girl's miseries of this\nkind; but they are very real and stinging miseries to her. All that\nMolly could do was to resolve on a single eye to the dear old Squire,\nand his mental and bodily comforts; to try and heal up any breaches\nwhich might have occurred between him and Aimée; and to ignore Roger\nas much as possible. Good Roger! Kind Roger! Dear Roger! It would\nbe very hard to avoid him as much as was consistent with common\npoliteness; but it would be right to do it; and when she was with\nhim she must be as natural as possible, or he might observe some\ndifference; but what was natural? How much ought she avoid being with\nhim? Would he even notice if she was more chary of her company, more\ncalculating of her words? Alas! the simplicity of their intercourse\nwas spoilt henceforwards! She made laws for herself; she resolved\nto devote herself to the Squire and to Aimée, and to forget Mrs.\nGoodenough's foolish speeches; but her perfect freedom was gone; and\nwith it half her chance--that is to say, half her chance would have\nbeen lost over any strangers who had not known her before; they would\nprobably have thought her stiff and awkward, and apt to say things\nand then retract them. But she was so different from her usual self\nthat Roger noticed the change in her as soon as she arrived at the\nHall. She had carefully measured out the days of her visit; they were\nto be exactly the same number as she had spent at the Towers. She\nfeared lest if she stayed at the Hall a shorter time the Squire might\nbe annoyed. Yet how charming the place looked in its early autumnal\nglow as she drove up! And there was Roger at the hall-door, waiting\nto receive her, watching for her coming. And now he retreated,\napparently to summon his sister-in-law, who came now timidly forwards\nin her deep widow's mourning, holding her boy in her arms as if to\nprotect her shyness; but he struggled down, and ran towards the\ncarriage, eager to greet his friend the coachman, and to obtain a\npromised ride. Roger did not say much himself; he wanted to make\nAimée feel her place as daughter of the house; but she was too timid\nto speak much. And she only took Molly by the hand and led her into\nthe drawing-room, where, as if by a sudden impulse of gratitude for\nall the tender nursing she had received during her illness, she put\nher arms round Molly and kissed her long and well. And after that\nthey came to be friends.\n\nIt was nearly lunch-time, and the Squire always made his appearance\nat that meal, more for the pleasure of seeing his grandson eat his\ndinner than for any hunger of his own. To-day Molly quickly saw the\nwhole state of the family affairs. She thought that even had Roger\nsaid nothing about them at the Towers, she should have seen that\nneither the father nor the daughter-in-law had as yet found the\nclue to each other's characters, although they had now been living\nfor several months in the same house. Aimée seemed to forget her\nEnglish in her nervousness; and to watch with the jealous eyes of a\ndissatisfied mother all the proceedings of the Squire towards her\nlittle boy. They were not of the wisest kind, it must be owned; the\nchild sipped the strong ale with evident relish and clamoured for\neverything which he saw the others enjoying. Aimée could hardly\nattend to Molly for her anxiety as to what her boy was doing and\neating; yet she said nothing. Roger took the end of the table\nopposite to that at which sat grandfather and grandchild. After the\nboy's first wants were gratified the Squire addressed himself to\nMolly.\n\n\"Well! and so you can come here a-visiting though you have been among\nthe grand folks. I thought you were going to cut us, Miss Molly, when\nI heard you was gone to the Towers. Couldn't find any other place to\nstay at while father and mother were away, but an earl's, eh?\"\n\n\"They asked me, and I went,\" said Molly; \"now you've asked me, and\nI've come here.\"\n\n\"I think you might ha' known you'd be always welcome here, without\nwaiting for asking. Why, Molly! I look upon you as a kind of a\ndaughter more than Madam there!\" dropping his voice a little,\nand perhaps supposing that the child's babble would drown the\nsignification of his words.--\"Nay, you needn't look at me so\npitifully, she doesn't follow English readily.\"\n\n\"I think she does!\" said Molly, in a low voice,--not looking up,\nhowever, for fear of catching another glimpse at Aimée's sudden\nforlornness of expression and deepened colour. She felt grateful,\nas if for a personal favour, when she heard Roger speaking to Aimée\nthe moment afterwards in the tender tones of brotherly friendliness;\nand presently these two were sufficiently engaged in a separate\nconversation to allow Molly and the Squire to go on talking.\n\n\"He's a sturdy chap, isn't he?\" said the Squire, stroking the little\nRoger's curly head. \"And he can puff four puffs at grandpapa's pipe\nwithout being sick, can't he?\"\n\n\"I s'ant puff any more puffs,\" said the boy, resolutely. \"Mamma says\n'No.' I s'ant.\"\n\n\"That's just like her!\" said the Squire, dropping his voice this time\nhowever. \"As if it could do the child any harm!\"\n\nMolly made a point of turning the conversation from all personal\nsubjects after this, and kept the Squire talking about the progress\nof his drainage during the rest of lunch. He offered to take her to\nsee it; and she acceded to the proposal, thinking, meantime, how\nlittle she need have anticipated the being thrown too intimately with\nRoger, who seemed to devote himself to his sister-in-law. But, in\nthe evening, when Aimée had gone upstairs to put her boy to bed, and\nthe Squire was asleep in his easy-chair, a sudden flush of memory\nbrought Mrs. Goodenough's words again to her mind. She was virtually\ntête-à-tête with Roger, as she had been dozens of times before, but\nnow she could not help assuming an air of constraint; her eyes did\nnot meet his in the old frank way; she took up a book at a pause in\nthe conversation, and left him puzzled and annoyed at the change\nin her manner. And so it went on during all the time of her visit.\nIf sometimes she forgot, and let herself go into all her old\nnaturalness, by-and-by she checked herself, and became comparatively\ncold and reserved. Roger was pained at all this--more pained day\nafter day; more anxious to discover the cause. Aimée, too, silently\nnoticed how different Molly became in Roger's presence. One day she\ncould not help saying to Molly,--\n\n\"Don't you like Roger? You would, if you only knew how good he is! He\nis learned, but that is nothing: it is his goodness that one admires\nand loves.\"\n\n\"He is very good,\" said Molly. \"I have known him long enough to know\nthat.\"\n\n\"But you don't think him agreeable? He is not like my poor husband,\nto be sure; and you knew him well, too. Ah! tell me about him once\nagain. When you first knew him? When his mother was alive?\"\n\nMolly had grown very fond of Aimée; when the latter was at her ease\nshe had very charming and attaching ways; but feeling uneasy in her\nposition in the Squire's house, she was almost repellent to him; and\nhe, too, put on his worst side to her. Roger was most anxious to\nbring them together, and had several consultations with Molly as to\nthe best means of accomplishing this end. As long as they talked upon\nthis subject, she spoke to him in the quiet sensible manner which she\ninherited from her father; but when their discussions on this point\nwere ended, she fell back into her piquant assumption of dignified\nreserve. It was very difficult for her to maintain this strange\nmanner, especially when once or twice she fancied that it gave him\npain; and she would go into her own room and suddenly burst into\ntears on these occasions, and wish that her visit was ended, and\nthat she was once again in the eventless tranquillity of her own\nhome. Yet presently her fancy changed, and she clung to the swiftly\npassing hours, as if she would still retain the happiness of each.\nFor, unknown to her, Roger was exerting himself to make her visit\npleasant. He was not willing to appear as the instigator of all the\nlittle plans for each day, for he felt as if, somehow, he did not\nhold the same place in her regard as formerly. Still, one day Aimée\nsuggested a nutting expedition--another day they gave little Roger\nthe unheard-of pleasure of tea out-of-doors--there was something else\nagreeable for a third; and it was Roger who arranged all these simple\npleasures--such as he knew Molly would enjoy. But to her he only\nappeared as the ready forwarder of Aimée's devices. The week was\nnearly gone, when one morning the Squire found Roger sitting in the\nold library--with a book before him, it is true, but so deep in\nthought that he was evidently startled by his father's unexpected\nentrance.\n\n\"I thought I should find thee here, my lad! We'll have the old room\ndone up again before winter; it smells musty enough, and yet I\nsee it's the place for thee! I want thee to go with me round the\nfive-acre. I'm thinking of laying it down in grass. It's time for you\nto be getting into the fresh air, you look quite wobegone over books,\nbooks, books; there never was a thing like 'em for stealing a man's\nhealth out of him!\"\n\nSo Roger went out with his father, without saying many words till\nthey were at some distance from the house. Then he brought out a\nsentence with such abruptness that he repaid his father for the start\nthe latter had given him a quarter of an hour before.\n\n\"Father, you remember I'm going out again to the Cape next month! You\nspoke of doing up the library. If it is for me, I shall be away all\nthe winter.\"\n\n\"Can't you get off it?\" pleaded his father. \"I thought maybe you'd\nforgotten all about it.\"\n\n\"Not likely!\" said Roger, half smiling.\n\n\"Well, but they might have found another man to finish up your work.\"\n\n\"No one can finish it but myself. Besides, an engagement is an\nengagement. When I wrote to Lord Hollingford to tell him I must come\nhome, I promised to go out again for another six months.\"\n\n\"Ay. I know. And perhaps it will put it out of thy mind. It will\nalways be hard on me to part from thee. But I daresay it's best for\nyou.\"\n\nRoger's colour deepened. \"You are alluding to--to Miss\nKirkpatrick--Mrs. Henderson, I mean. Father, let me tell you once\nfor all, I think that was rather a hasty affair. I'm pretty sure now\nthat we were not suited to each other. I was wretched when I got her\nletter--at the Cape I mean--but I believe it was for the best.\"\n\n\"That's right. That's my own boy,\" said the Squire turning round and\nshaking hands with his son with vehemence. \"And now I'll tell you\nwhat I heard the other day, when I was at the magistrates' meeting.\nThey were all saying she had jilted Preston.\"\n\n\"I don't want to hear anything against her; she may have her faults,\nbut I can never forget how I once loved her.\"\n\n\"Well, well! Perhaps it's right. I was not so bad about it, was I,\nRoger? Poor Osborne need not ha' been so secret with me. I asked your\nMiss Cynthia out here--and her mother and all--my bark is worse than\nmy bite. For, if I had a wish on earth, it was to see Osborne married\nas befitted one of an old stock, and he went and chose out this\nFrench girl, of no family at all, only a--\"\n\n\"Never mind what she was; look at what she is! I wonder you are not\nmore taken with her humility and sweetness, father!\"\n\n\"I don't even call her pretty,\" said the Squire uneasily, for he\ndreaded a repetition of the arguments which Roger had often used to\nmake him give Aimée her proper due of affection and position. \"Now\nyour Miss Cynthia was pretty, I will say that for her, the baggage!\nAnd to think that when you two lads flew right in your father's face,\nand picked out girls below you in rank and family, you should neither\nof you have set your fancies on my little Molly there. I daresay I\nshould ha' been angry enough at the time, but the lassie would ha'\nfound her way to my heart, as never this French lady, nor t' other\none, could ha' done.\"\n\nRoger did not answer.\n\n\"I don't see why you mightn't put up for her still. I'm humble enough\nnow, and you're not heir as Osborne was who married a servant-maid.\nDon't you think you could turn your thoughts upon Molly Gibson,\nRoger?\"\n\n\"No!\" said Roger, shortly. \"It's too late--too late. Don't let us\ntalk any more of my marrying. Isn't this the five-acre field?\" And\nsoon he was discussing the relative values of meadow, arable and\npasture land with his father, as heartily as if he had never known\nMolly, or loved Cynthia. But the squire was not in such good spirits,\nand went but heavily into the discussion. At the end of it he said\nàpropos de bottes,--\n\n\"But don't you think you could like her if you tried, Roger?\"\n\nRoger knew perfectly well to what his father was alluding, but for\nan instant he was on the point of pretending to misunderstand. At\nlength, however, he said, in a low voice,--\n\n\"I shall never try, father. Don't let us talk any more about it. As\nI said before, it's too late.\"\n\nThe Squire was like a child to whom some toy has been refused;\nfrom time to time the thought of his disappointment in this matter\nrecurred to his mind; and then he took to blaming Cynthia as the\nprimary cause of Roger's present indifference to womankind.\n\nIt so happened that on Molly's last morning at the Hall, she received\nher first letter from Cynthia--Mrs. Henderson. It was just before\nbreakfast-time; Roger was out of doors, Aimée had not as yet come\ndown; Molly was alone in the dining-room, where the table was already\nlaid. She had just finished reading her letter when the Squire came\nin, and she immediately and joyfully told him what the morning had\nbrought to her. But when she saw the Squire's face, she could have\nbitten her tongue out for having named Cynthia's name to him. He\nlooked vexed and depressed.\n\n\"I wish I might never hear of her again--I do. She's been the bane\nof my Roger, that's what she has. I haven't slept half the night,\nand it's all her fault. Why, there's my boy saying now that he has\nno heart for ever marrying, poor lad! I wish it had been you, Molly,\nmy lads had taken a fancy for. I told Roger so t'other day, and\nI said that for all you were beneath what I ever thought to see\nthem marry,--well--it's of no use--it's too late, now, as he said.\nOnly never let me hear that baggage's name again, that's all, and\nno offence to you either, lassie. I know you love the wench; but\nif you'll take an old man's word, you're worth a score of her. I\nwish young men would think so too,\" he muttered as he went to the\nside-table to carve the ham, while Molly poured out the tea--her\nheart very hot all the time, and effectually silenced for a space.\nIt was with the greatest difficulty that she could keep tears of\nmortification from falling. She felt altogether in a wrong position\nin that house, which had been like a home to her until this last\nvisit. What with Mrs. Goodenough's remarks, and now this speech of\nthe Squire's, implying--at least to her susceptible imagination--that\nhis father had proposed her as a wife to Roger, and that she had been\nrejected--she was more glad than she could express, or even think,\nthat she was going home this very morning. Roger came in from his\nwalk while she was in this state of feeling. He saw in an instant\nthat something had distressed Molly; and he longed to have the old\nfriendly right of asking her what it was. But she had effectually\nkept him at too great a distance during the last few days for him to\nfeel at liberty to speak to her in the old straightforward brotherly\nway; especially now, when he perceived her efforts to conceal her\nfeelings, and the way in which she drank her tea in feverish haste,\nand accepted bread only to crumble it about her plate, untouched. It\nwas all that he could do to make talk under these circumstances; but\nhe backed up her efforts as well as he could until Aimée came down,\ngrave and anxious: her boy had not had a good night, and did not seem\nwell; he had fallen into a feverish sleep now, or she could not have\nleft him. Immediately the whole table was in a ferment. The Squire\npushed away his plate, and could eat no more; Roger was trying\nto extract a detail or a fact out of Aimée, who began to give\nway to tears. Molly quickly proposed that the carriage, which\nhad been ordered to take her home at eleven, should come round\nimmediately--she had everything ready packed up, she said,--and\nbring back her father at once. By leaving directly, she said, it was\nprobable they might catch him after he had returned from his morning\nvisits in the town, and before he had set off on his more distant\nround. Her proposal was agreed to, and she went upstairs to put on\nher things. She came down all ready into the drawing-room, expecting\nto find Aimée and the Squire there; but during her absence word had\nbeen brought to the anxious mother and grandfather that the child had\nwakened up in a panic, and both had rushed up to their darling. But\nRoger was in the drawing-room awaiting Molly, with a large bunch of\nthe choicest flowers.\n\n\"Look, Molly!\" said he, as she was on the point of leaving the room\nagain, on finding him there alone. \"I gathered these flowers for you\nbefore breakfast.\" He came to meet her reluctant advance.\n\n\"Thank you!\" said she. \"You are very kind. I am very much obliged to\nyou.\"\n\n\"Then you must do something for me,\" said he, determined not to\nnotice the restraint of her manner, and making the re-arrangement of\nthe flowers which she held a sort of link between them, so that she\ncould not follow her impulse, and leave the room.\n\n\"Tell me,--honestly as I know you will if you speak at all,--haven't\nI done something to vex you since we were so happy at the Towers\ntogether?\"\n\nHis voice was so kind and true,--his manner so winning yet wistful,\nthat Molly would have been thankful to tell him all. She believed\nthat he could have helped her more than any one to understand how she\nought to behave rightly; he would have disentangled her fancies,--if\nonly he himself had not lain at the very core and centre of all her\nperplexity and dismay. How could she tell him of Mrs. Goodenough's\nwords troubling her maiden modesty? How could she ever repeat what\nhis father had said that morning, and assure him that she, no more\nthan he, wished that their old friendliness should be troubled by the\nthought of a nearer relationship?\n\n\"No, you never vexed me in my whole life, Roger,\" said she, looking\nstraight at him for the first time for many days.\n\n\"I believe you, because you say so. I have no right to ask further.\nMolly, will you give me back one of those flowers, as a pledge of\nwhat you have said?\"\n\n\"Take whichever you like,\" said she, eagerly offering him the whole\nnosegay to choose from.\n\n\"No; you must choose, and you must give it me.\"\n\nJust then the Squire came in. Roger would have been glad if Molly had\nnot gone on so eagerly to ransack the bunch for the choicest flower\nin his father's presence; but she exclaimed:\n\n\"Oh, please, Mr. Hamley, do you know which is Roger's favourite\nflower?\"\n\n\"No. A rose, I daresay. The carriage is at the door, and, Molly my\ndear, I don't want to hurry you, but--\"\n\n\"I know. Here, Roger,--here is a rose!\n\n   (\"And red as a rose was she.\")\n\nI will find papa as soon as ever I get home. How is the little boy?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid he's beginning of some kind of a fever.\"\n\nAnd the Squire took her to the carriage, talking all the way of the\nlittle boy; Roger following, and hardly heeding what he was doing in\nthe answer to the question he kept asking himself: \"Too late--or not?\nCan she ever forget that my first foolish love was given to one so\ndifferent?\"\n\nWhile she, as the carriage rolled away, kept saying to herself,--\"We\nare friends again. I don't believe he will remember what the dear\nSquire took it into his head to suggest for many days. It is so\npleasant to be on the old terms again! and what lovely flowers!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LX.\n\nROGER HAMLEY'S CONFESSION.\n\n\nRoger had a great deal to think of as he turned away from looking\nafter the carriage as long as it could be seen. The day before,\nhe had believed that Molly had come to view all the symptoms of\nhis growing love for her,--symptoms which he thought had been so\npatent,--as disgusting inconstancy to the inconstant Cynthia; that\nshe had felt that an attachment which could be so soon transferred to\nanother was not worth having; and that she had desired to mark all\nthis by her changed treatment of him, and so to nip it in the bud.\nBut this morning her old sweet, frank manner had returned--in their\nlast interview, at any rate. He puzzled himself hard to find out what\ncould have distressed her at breakfast-time. He even went so far as\nto ask Robinson whether Miss Gibson had received any letters that\nmorning; and when he heard that she had had one, he tried to believe\nthat the letter was in some way the cause of her sorrow. So far\nso good. They were friends again after their unspoken difference;\nbut that was not enough for Roger. He felt every day more and more\ncertain that she, and she alone, could make him happy. He had felt\nthis, and had partly given up all hope, while his father had been\nurging upon him the very course he most desired to take. No need for\n\"trying\" to love her, he said to himself,--that was already done. And\nyet he was very jealous on her behalf. Was that love worthy of her\nwhich had once been given to Cynthia? Was not this affair too much\na mocking mimicry of the last--again just on the point of leaving\nEngland for a considerable time--if he followed her now to her own\nhome,--in the very drawing-room where he had once offered to Cynthia?\nAnd then by a strong resolve he determined on this course. They\nwere friends now, and he kissed the rose that was her pledge of\nfriendship. If he went to Africa, he ran some deadly chances; he knew\nbetter what they were now than he had done when he went before. Until\nhis return he would not even attempt to win more of her love than\nhe already had. But once safe home again, no weak fancies as to\nwhat might or might not be her answer should prevent his running\nall chances to gain the woman who was to him the one who excelled\nall. His was not the poor vanity that thinks more of the possible\nmortification of a refusal than of the precious jewel of a bride that\nmay be won. Somehow or another, please God to send him back safe, he\nwould put his fate to the touch. And till then he would be patient.\nHe was no longer a boy to rush at the coveted object; he was a man\ncapable of judging and abiding.\n\nMolly sent her father, as soon as she could find him, to the Hall;\nand then sate down to the old life in the home drawing-room, where\nshe missed Cynthia's bright presence at every turn. Mrs. Gibson was\nin rather a querulous mood, which fastened itself upon the injury of\nCynthia's letter being addressed to Molly, and not to herself.\n\n\"Considering all the trouble I had with her trousseau, I think she\nmight have written to me.\"\n\n\"But she did--her first letter was to you, mamma,\" said Molly, her\nreal thoughts still intent upon the Hall--upon the sick child--upon\nRoger, and his begging for the flower.\n\n\"Yes, just a first letter, three pages long, with an account of her\ncrossing; while to you she can write about fashions, and how the\nbonnets are worn in Paris, and all sorts of interesting things. But\npoor mothers must never expect confidential letters, I have found\nthat out.\"\n\n\"You may see my letter, mamma,\" said Molly, \"there is really nothing\nin it.\"\n\n\"And to think of her writing, and crossing to you who don't value it,\nwhile my poor heart is yearning after my lost child! Really, life is\nsomewhat hard to bear at times.\"\n\nThen there was silence--for a while.\n\n\"Do tell me something about your visit, Molly. Is Roger very\nheart-broken? Does he talk much about Cynthia?\"\n\n\"No. He does not mention her often; hardly ever, I think.\"\n\n\"I never thought he had much feeling. If he had had, he would not\nhave let her go so easily.\"\n\n\"I don't see how he could help it. When he came to see her after his\nreturn, she was already engaged to Mr. Henderson--he had come down\nthat very day,\" said Molly, with perhaps more heat than the occasion\nrequired.\n\n\"My poor head!\" said Mrs. Gibson, putting her hands up to her head.\n\"One may see you've been stopping with people of robust health,\nand--excuse my saying it, Molly, of your friends--of unrefined\nhabits, you've got to talk in so loud a voice. But do remember my\nhead, Molly. So Roger has quite forgotten Cynthia, has he? Oh! what\ninconstant creatures men are! He will be falling in love with some\ngrandee next, mark my words! They are making a pet and a lion of him,\nand he's just the kind of weak young man to have his head turned by\nit all; and to propose to some fine lady of rank, who would no more\nthink of marrying him than of marrying her footman.\"\n\n\"I don't think it is likely,\" said Molly, stoutly. \"Roger is too\nsensible for anything of the kind.\"\n\n\"That's just the fault I always found with him; sensible and\ncold-hearted! Now, that's a kind of character which may be very\nvaluable, but which revolts me. Give me warmth of heart, even with a\nlittle of that extravagance of feeling which misleads the judgment,\nand conducts into romance. Poor Mr. Kirkpatrick! That was just\nhis character. I used to tell him that his love for me was quite\nromantic. I think I have told you about his walking five miles in the\nrain to get me a muffin once when I was ill?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" said Molly. \"It was very kind of him.\"\n\n\"So imprudent, too! Just what one of your sensible, cold-hearted,\ncommonplace people would never have thought of doing. With his cough\nand all.\"\n\n\"I hope he didn't suffer for it?\" replied Molly, anxious at any\ncost to keep off the subject of the Hamleys, upon which she and her\nstepmother always disagreed, and on which she found it difficult to\nkeep her temper.\n\n\"Yes, indeed, he did! I don't think he ever got over the cold he\ncaught that day. I wish you had known him, Molly. I sometimes wonder\nwhat would have happened if you had been my real daughter, and\nCynthia dear papa's, and Mr. Kirkpatrick and your own dear mother had\nall lived. People talk a good deal about natural affinities. It would\nhave been a question for a philosopher.\" She began to think on the\nimpossibilities she had suggested.\n\n\"I wonder how the poor little boy is?\" said Molly, after a pause,\nspeaking out her thought.\n\n\"Poor little child! When one thinks how little his prolonged\nexistence is to be desired, one feels that his death would be a\nboon.\"\n\n\"Mamma! what do you mean?\" asked Molly, much shocked. \"Why, every one\ncares for his life as the most precious thing! You have never seen\nhim! He is the bonniest, sweetest little fellow that can be! What do\nyou mean?\"\n\n\"I should have thought that the Squire would have desired a\nbetter-born heir than the offspring of a servant,--with all his ideas\nabout descent and blood and family. And I should have thought that it\nwas a little mortifying to Roger--who must naturally have looked upon\nhimself as his brother's heir--to find a little interloping child,\nhalf French, half English, stepping into his shoes!\"\n\n\"You don't know how fond they are of him,--the Squire looks upon him\nas the apple of his eye.\"\n\n\"Molly! Molly! pray don't let me hear you using such vulgar\nexpressions. When shall I teach you true refinement--that refinement\nwhich consists in never even thinking a vulgar, commonplace thing!\nProverbs and idioms are never used by people of education. 'Apple of\nhis eye!' I am really shocked.\"\n\n\"Well, mamma, I'm very sorry; but after all, what I wanted to say\nas strongly as I could was, that the Squire loves the little boy as\nmuch as his own child; and that Roger--oh! what a shame to think that\nRoger--\" And she stopped suddenly short, as if she were choked.\n\n\"I don't wonder at your indignation, my dear!\" said Mrs. Gibson.\n\"It is just what I should have felt at your age. But one learns the\nbaseness of human nature with advancing years. I was wrong, though,\nto undeceive you so early--but depend upon it, the thought I alluded\nto has crossed Roger Hamley's mind!\"\n\n\"All sorts of thoughts cross one's mind--it depends upon whether one\ngives them harbour and encouragement,\" said Molly.\n\n\"My dear, if you must have the last word, don't let it be a truism.\nBut let us talk on some more interesting subject. I asked Cynthia to\nbuy me a silk gown in Paris, and I said I would send her word what\ncolour I fixed upon--I think dark blue is the most becoming to my\ncomplexion; what do you say?\"\n\nMolly agreed, sooner than take the trouble of thinking about the\nthing at all; she was far too full of her silent review of all the\ntraits in Roger's character which had lately come under her notice,\nand that gave the lie direct to her stepmother's supposition. Just\nthen they heard Mr. Gibson's step downstairs. But it was some time\nbefore he made his entrance into the room where they were sitting.\n\n\"How is little Roger?\" said Molly, eagerly.\n\n\"Beginning with scarlet fever, I'm afraid. It's well you left when\nyou did, Molly. You've never had it. We must stop up all intercourse\nwith the Hall for a time. If there's one illness I dread, it is\nthis.\"\n\n\"But you go and come back to us, papa.\"\n\n\"Yes. But I always take plenty of precautions. However, no need to\ntalk about risks that lie in the way of one's duty. It is unnecessary\nrisks that we must avoid.\"\n\n\"Will he have it badly?\" asked Molly.\n\n\"I can't tell. I shall do my best for the wee laddie.\"\n\nWhenever Mr. Gibson's feelings were touched, he was apt to recur to\nthe language of his youth. Molly knew now that he was much interested\nin the case.\n\nFor some days there was imminent danger to the little boy; for some\nweeks there was a more chronic form of illness to contend with; but\nwhen the immediate danger was over and the warm daily interest was\npast, Molly began to realize that, from the strict quarantine her\nfather evidently thought it necessary to establish between the two\nhouses, she was not likely to see Roger again before his departure\nfor Africa. Oh! if she had but made more of the uncared-for days that\nshe had passed with him at the Hall! Worse than uncared for; days on\nwhich she had avoided him; refused to converse freely with him; given\nhim pain by her change of manner; for she had read in his eyes, heard\nin his voice, that he had been perplexed and pained, and now her\nimagination dwelt on and exaggerated the expression of his tones and\nlooks.\n\nOne evening after dinner, her father said,--\n\n\"As the country-people say, I've done a stroke of work to-day. Roger\nHamley and I have laid our heads together, and we've made a plan by\nwhich Mrs. Osborne and her boy will leave the Hall.\"\n\n\"What did I say the other day, Molly?\" said Mrs. Gibson,\ninterrupting, and giving Molly a look of extreme intelligence.\n\n\"And go into lodgings at Jennings' farm; not four hundred yards from\nthe Park-field gate,\" continued Mr. Gibson. \"The Squire and his\ndaughter-in-law have got to be much better friends over the little\nfellow's sick-bed; and I think he sees now how impossible it would\nbe for the mother to leave her child, and go and be happy in France,\nwhich has been the notion running in his head all this time. To buy\nher off, in fact. But that one night, when I was very uncertain\nwhether I could bring him through, they took to crying together,\nand condoling with each other; and it was just like tearing down a\ncurtain that had been between them; they have been rather friends\nthan otherwise ever since. Still Roger\"--(Molly's cheeks grew warm\nand her eyes soft and bright; it was such a pleasure to hear his\nname)--\"and I both agree that his mother knows much better how to\nmanage the boy than his grandfather does. I suppose that was the\none good thing she got from that hard-hearted mistress of hers. She\ncertainly has been well trained in the management of children. And\nit makes her impatient, and annoyed, and unhappy, when she sees\nthe Squire giving the child nuts and ale, and all sorts of silly\nindulgences, and spoiling him in every possible way. Yet she's a\ncoward, and doesn't speak out her mind. Now by being in lodgings, and\nhaving her own servants--nice pretty rooms they are, too; we went to\nsee them, and Mrs. Jennings promises to attend well to Mrs. Osborne\nHamley, and is very much honoured, and all that sort of thing--not\nten minutes' walk from the Hall, too, so that she and the little chap\nmay easily go backwards and forwards as often as they like, and yet\nshe may keep the control over the child's discipline and diet. In\nshort, I think I've done a good day's work,\" he continued, stretching\nhimself a little; and then with a shake rousing himself, and making\nready to go out again, to see a patient who had sent for him in his\nabsence.\n\n\"A good day's work!\" he repeated to himself as he ran downstairs.\n\"I don't know when I have been so happy!\" For he had not told Molly\nall that had passed between him and Roger. Roger had begun a fresh\nsubject of conversation just as Mr. Gibson was hastening away from\nthe Hall, after completing the new arrangement for Aimée and her\nchild.\n\n\"You know that I set off next Tuesday, Mr. Gibson, don't you?\" said\nRoger, a little abruptly.\n\n\"To be sure. I hope you'll be as successful in all your scientific\nobjects as you were the last time, and have no sorrows awaiting you\nwhen you come back.\"\n\n\"Thank you. Yes. I hope so. You don't think there's any danger of\ninfection now, do you?\"\n\n\"No! If the disease were to spread through the household, I think\nwe should have had some signs of it before now. One is never sure,\nremember, with scarlet fever.\"\n\nRoger was silent for a minute or two. \"Should you be afraid,\" he said\nat length, \"of seeing me at your house?\"\n\n\"Thank you; but I think I would rather decline the pleasure of your\nsociety there at present. It's only three weeks or a month since\nthe child began. Besides, I shall be over here again before you go.\nI'm always on my guard against symptoms of dropsy. I have known it\nsupervene.\"\n\n\"Then I shall not see Molly again!\" said Roger, in a tone and with a\nlook of great disappointment.\n\nMr. Gibson turned his keen, observant eyes upon the young man, and\nlooked at him in as penetrating a manner as if he had been beginning\nwith an unknown illness. Then the doctor and the father compressed\nhis lips and gave vent to a long intelligent whistle. \"Whew!\" said\nhe.\n\nRoger's bronzed cheeks took a deeper shade.\n\n\"You will take a message to her from me, won't you? A message of\nfarewell?\" he pleaded.\n\n\"Not I. I'm not going to be a message-carrier between any young man\nand young woman. I'll tell my womenkind I forbade you to come near\nthe house, and that you're sorry to go away without bidding good-by.\nThat's all I shall say.\"\n\n\"But you do not disapprove?--I see you guess why. Oh! Mr. Gibson,\njust speak to me one word of what must be in your heart, though you\nare pretending not to understand why I would give worlds to see Molly\nagain before I go.\"\n\n\"My dear boy!\" said Mr. Gibson, more affected than he liked to show,\nand laying his hand on Roger's shoulder. Then he pulled himself up,\nand said gravely enough,--\n\n\"Mind, Molly is not Cynthia. If she were to care for you, she is not\none who could transfer her love to the next comer.\"\n\n\"You mean not as readily as I have done,\" replied Roger. \"I only wish\nyou could know what a different feeling this is to my boyish love for\nCynthia.\"\n\n\"I wasn't thinking of you when I spoke; but, however, as I might have\nremembered afterwards that you were not a model of constancy, let us\nhear what you have to say for yourself.\"\n\n\"Not much. I did love Cynthia very much. Her manners and her beauty\nbewitched me; but her letters,--short, hurried letters,--sometimes\nshowing that she really hadn't taken the trouble to read mine\nthrough,--I cannot tell you the pain they gave me! Twelve months'\nsolitude, in frequent danger of one's life--face to face with\ndeath--sometimes ages a man like many years' experience. Still I\nlonged for the time when I should see her sweet face again, and hear\nher speak. Then the letter at the Cape!--and still I hoped. But you\nknow how I found her, when I went to have the interview which I\ntrusted might end in the renewal of our relations,--engaged to Mr.\nHenderson. I saw her walking with him in your garden, coquetting with\nhim about a flower, just as she used to do with me. I can see the\npitying look in Molly's eyes as she watched me; I can see it now. And\nI could beat myself for being such a blind fool as to-- What must she\nthink of me? how she must despise me, choosing the false Duessa.\"\n\n\"Come, come! Cynthia isn't so bad as that. She's a very fascinating,\nfaulty creature.\"\n\n\"I know! I know! I will never allow any one to say a word against\nher. If I called her the false Duessa it was because I wanted to\nexpress my sense of the difference between her and Molly as strongly\nas I could. You must allow for a lover's exaggeration. Besides, all I\nwanted to say was,--Do you think that Molly, after seeing and knowing\nthat I had loved a person so inferior to herself, could ever be\nbrought to listen to me?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I can't tell. And even if I could, I wouldn't. Only if\nit's any comfort to you, I may say what my experience has taught me.\nWomen are queer, unreasoning creatures, and are just as likely as not\nto love a man who has been throwing away his affection.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir!\" said Roger, interrupting him. \"I see you mean to\ngive me encouragement. And I had resolved never to give Molly a hint\nof what I felt till I returned,--and then to try and win her by every\nmeans in my power. I determined not to repeat the former scene in the\nformer place,--in your drawing-room,--however I might be tempted. And\nperhaps, after all, she avoided me when she was here last.\"\n\n\"Now, Roger, I've listened to you long enough. If you've nothing\nbetter to do with your time than to talk about my daughter, I have.\nWhen you come back it will be time enough to inquire how far your\nfather would approve of such an engagement.\"\n\n\"He himself urged it upon me the other day--but then I was in\ndespair--I thought it was too late.\"\n\n\"And what means you are likely to have of maintaining a wife?--I\nalways thought that point was passed too lightly over when you formed\nyour hurried engagement to Cynthia. I'm not mercenary,--Molly has\nsome money independently of me,--that she by the way knows nothing\nof,--not much;--and I can allow her something. But all these things\nmust be left till your return.\"\n\n\"Then you sanction my attachment?\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by sanctioning it. I can't help it. I\nsuppose losing one's daughter is a necessary evil. Still\"--seeing the\ndisappointed expression on Roger's face--\"it is but fair to you to\nsay, I'd rather give my child,--my only child, remember!--to you,\nthan to any man in the world!\"\n\n\"Thank you!\" said Roger, shaking hands with Mr. Gibson, almost\nagainst the will of the latter. \"And I may see her, just once, before\nI go?\"\n\n\"Decidedly not. There I come in as doctor as well as father. No!\"\n\n\"But you will take a message, at any rate?\"\n\n\"To my wife and to her conjointly. I will not separate them. I will\nnot in the slightest way be a go-between.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Roger. \"Tell them both as strongly as you can how\nI regret your prohibition. I see I must submit. But if I don't come\nback, I'll haunt you for having been so cruel.\"\n\n\"Come, I like that. Give me a wise man of science in love! No one\nbeats him in folly. Good-by.\"\n\n\"Good-by. You will see Molly this afternoon!\"\n\n\"To be sure. And you will see your father. But I don't heave such\nportentous sighs at the thought.\"\n\nMr. Gibson gave Roger's message to his wife and to Molly that evening\nat dinner. It was but what the latter had expected, after all her\nfather had said of the very great danger of infection; but now that\nher expectation came in the shape of a final decision, it took away\nher appetite. She submitted in silence; but her observant father\nnoticed that after this speech of his, she only played with the food\non her plate, and concealed a good deal of it under her knife and\nfork.\n\n\"Lover _versus_ father!\" thought he, half sadly. \"Lover wins.\" And\nhe, too, became indifferent to all that remained of his dinner. Mrs.\nGibson pattered on; and nobody listened.\n\nThe day of Roger's departure came. Molly tried hard to forget it\nin working away at a cushion she was preparing as a present to\nCynthia; people did worsted-work in those days. One, two, three. One,\ntwo, three, four, five, six, seven; all wrong: she was thinking of\nsomething else, and had to unpick it. It was a rainy day, too; and\nMrs. Gibson, who had planned to go out and pay some calls, had to\nstay indoors. This made her restless and fidgety. She kept going\nbackwards and forwards to different windows in the drawing-room to\nlook at the weather, as if she imagined that while it rained at one\nwindow, it might be fine weather at another.\n\n\"Molly--come here! who is that man wrapped up in a\ncloak,--there,--near the Park wall, under the beech-tree--he has been\nthere this half-hour and more, never stirring, and looking at this\nhouse all the time! I think it's very suspicious.\"\n\nMolly looked, and in an instant recognized Roger under all his wraps.\nHer first instinct was to draw back. The next to come forwards, and\nsay--\"Why, mamma, it's Roger Hamley! Look now--he's kissing his hand;\nhe's wishing us good-by in the only way he can!\" And she responded\nto his sign; but she was not sure if he perceived her modest quiet\nmovement, for Mrs. Gibson became immediately so demonstrative that\nMolly fancied that her eager foolish pantomimic motions must absorb\nall his attention.\n\n\"I call this so attentive of him,\" said Mrs. Gibson, in the midst of\na volley of kisses of her hand. \"Really, it is quite romantic. It\nreminds me of former days--but he will be too late! I must send him\naway; it is half-past twelve!\" And she took out her watch and held it\nup, tapping it with her forefinger, and occupying the very centre of\nthe window. Molly could only peep here and there, dodging now up, now\ndown, now on this side, now on that, of the perpetually-moving arms.\nShe fancied she saw something of a corresponding movement on Roger's\npart. At length he went away slowly, slowly, and often looking back,\nin spite of the tapped watch. Mrs. Gibson at last retreated, and\nMolly quietly moved into her place to see his figure once more before\nthe turn of the road hid it from her view. He, too, knew where the\nlast glimpse of Mr. Gibson's house was to be obtained, and once more\nhe turned, and his white handkerchief floated in the air. Molly waved\nhers high up, with eager longing that it should be seen. And then,\nhe was gone! and Molly returned to her worsted-work, happy, glowing,\nsad, content, and thinking to herself how sweet is--friendship!\n\nWhen she came to a sense of the present, Mrs. Gibson was saying,--\n\n\"Upon my word, though Roger Hamley has never been a great favourite\nof mine, this little attention of his has reminded me very forcibly\nof a very charming young man--a _soupirant_, as the French would call\nhim--Lieutenant Harper--you must have heard me speak of him, Molly?\"\n\n\"I think I have!\" said Molly, absently.\n\n\"Well, you remember how devoted he was to me when I was at Mrs.\nDuncombe's, my first situation, and I only seventeen. And when the\nrecruiting party was ordered to another town, poor Mr. Harper came\nand stood opposite the schoolroom window for nearly an hour, and I\nknow it was his doing that the band played 'The girl I left behind\nme,' when they marched out the next day. Poor Mr. Harper! It was\nbefore I knew dear Mr. Kirkpatrick! Dear me. How often my poor heart\nhas had to bleed in this life of mine! not but what dear papa is a\nvery worthy man, and makes me very happy. He would spoil me, indeed,\nif I would let him. Still he is not as rich as Mr. Henderson.\"\n\nThat last sentence contained the germ of Mrs. Gibson's present\ngrievance. Having married Cynthia, as her mother put it--taking\ncredit to herself as if she had had the principal part in the\nachievement--she now became a little envious of her daughter's good\nfortune in being the wife of a young, handsome, rich, and moderately\nfashionable man, who lived in London. She naïvely expressed her\nfeelings on this subject to her husband one day when she was really\nnot feeling quite well, and when consequently her annoyances were\nmuch more present to her mind than her sources of happiness.\n\n\"It is such a pity!\" said she, \"that I was born when I was. I should\nso have liked to belong to this generation.\"\n\n\"That's sometimes my own feeling,\" said he. \"So many new views seem\nto be opened in science, that I should like, if it were possible, to\nlive till their reality was ascertained, and one saw what they led\nto. But I don't suppose that's your reason, my dear, for wishing to\nbe twenty or thirty years younger.\"\n\n\"No, indeed. And I did not put it in that hard unpleasant way; I only\nsaid I should like to belong to this generation. To tell the truth,\nI was thinking of Cynthia. Without vanity, I believe I was as pretty\nas she is--when I was a girl, I mean; I had not her dark eyelashes,\nbut then my nose was straighter. And now look at the difference! I\nhave to live in a little country town with three servants, and no\ncarriage; and she with her inferior good looks will live in Sussex\nPlace, and keep a man and a brougham, and I don't know what. But the\nfact is, in this generation there are so many more rich young men\nthan there were when I was a girl.\"\n\n\"Oh, ho! so that's your reason, is it, my dear? If you had been young\nnow you might have married somebody as well off as Walter?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" said she. \"I think that was my idea. Of course I should have\nliked him to be you. I always think if you had gone to the bar you\nmight have succeeded better, and lived in London, too. I don't think\nCynthia cares much where she lives, yet you see it has come to her.\"\n\n\"What has--London?\"\n\n\"Oh, you dear, facetious man. Now that's just the thing to have\ncaptivated a jury. I don't believe Walter will ever be so clever\nas you are. Yet he can take Cynthia to Paris, and abroad, and\neverywhere. I only hope all this indulgence won't develope the faults\nin Cynthia's character. It's a week since we heard from her, and I\ndid write so particularly to ask her for the autumn fashions before I\nbought my new bonnet. But riches are a great snare.\"\n\n\"Be thankful you are spared temptation, my dear.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not. Everybody likes to be tempted. And, after all, it's\nvery easy to resist temptation, if one wishes.\"\n\n\"I don't find it so easy,\" said her husband.\n\n\"Here's medicine for you, mamma,\" said Molly, entering with a letter\nheld up in her hand. \"A letter from Cynthia.\"\n\n\"Oh, you dear little messenger of good news! There was one of the\nheathen deities in Mangnall's Questions whose office it was to bring\nnews. The letter is dated from Calais. They're coming home! She's\nbought me a shawl and a bonnet! The dear creature! Always thinking\nof others before herself: good fortune cannot spoil her. They've a\nfortnight left of their holiday! Their house is not quite ready;\nthey're coming here. Oh, now, Mr. Gibson, we must have the new\ndinner-service at Watts's I've set my heart on so long! 'Home'\nCynthia calls this house. I'm sure it has been a home to her, poor\ndarling! I doubt if there is another man in the world who would have\ntreated his step-daughter like dear papa! And, Molly, you must have a\nnew gown.\"\n\n\"Come, come! Remember I belong to the last generation,\" said Mr.\nGibson.\n\n\"And Cynthia will not notice what I wear,\" said Molly, bright with\npleasure at the thought of seeing her again.\n\n\"No! but Walter will. He has such a quick eye for dress, and I think\nI rival papa; if he's a good stepfather, I'm a good stepmother, and\nI could not bear to see my Molly shabby, and not looking her best.\nI must have a new gown too. It won't do to look as if we had nothing\nbut the dresses which we wore at the wedding!\"\n\nBut Molly stood out against the new gown for herself, and urged\nthat if Cynthia and Walter were to come to visit them often, they\nhad better see them as they really were, in dress, habits, and\nappointments. When Mr. Gibson had left the room, Mrs. Gibson softly\nreproached Molly for her obstinacy.\n\n\"You might have allowed me to beg for a new gown for you, Molly, when\nyou knew how much I had admired that figured silk at Brown's the\nother day. And now, of course, I can't be so selfish as to get it for\nmyself, and you to have nothing. You should learn to understand the\nwishes of other people. Still, on the whole, you are a dear, sweet\ngirl, and I only wish--well, I know what I wish; only dear papa does\nnot like it to be talked about. And now cover me up close, and let me\ngo to sleep, and dream about my dear Cynthia and my new shawl!\"\n\n\n\n\n      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n\n\n\nCONCLUDING REMARKS:\n\n[By the Editor of _The Cornhill Magazine_.]\n\n\nHere the story is broken off, and it can never be finished. What\npromised to be the crowning work of a life is a memorial of death. A\nfew days longer, and it would have been a triumphal column, crowned\nwith a capital of festal leaves and flowers: now it is another sort\nof column--one of those sad white pillars which stand broken in the\nchurchyard.\n\nBut if the work is not quite complete, little remains to be added\nto it, and that little has been distinctly reflected into our minds.\nWe know that Roger Hamley will marry Molly, and that is what we are\nmost concerned about. Indeed, there was little else to tell. Had the\nwriter lived, she would have sent her hero back to Africa forthwith;\nand those scientific parts of Africa are a long way from Hamley; and\nthere is not much to choose between a long distance and a long time.\nHow many hours are there in twenty-four when you are all alone in\na desert place, a thousand miles from the happiness which might be\nyours to take--if you were there to take it? How many, when from the\nsources of the Topinambo your heart flies back ten times a day, like\na carrier-pigeon, to the one only source of future good for you, and\nten times a day returns with its message undelivered? Many more than\nare counted on the calendar. So Roger found. The days were weeks that\nseparated him from the time when Molly gave him a certain little\nflower, and months from the time which divorced him from Cynthia,\nwhom he had begun to doubt before he knew for certain that she was\nnever much worth hoping for. And if such were his days, what was\nthe slow procession of actual weeks and months in those remote and\nsolitary places? They were like years of a stay-at-home life, with\nliberty and leisure to see that nobody was courting Molly meanwhile.\nThe effect of this was, that long before the term of his engagement\nwas ended all that Cynthia had been to him was departed from Roger's\nmind, and all that Molly was and might be to him filled it full.\n\nHe returned; but when he saw Molly again he remembered that to\nher the time of his absence might not have seemed so long, and\nwas oppressed with the old dread that she would think him fickle.\nTherefore this young gentleman, so self-reliant and so lucid in\nscientific matters, found it difficult after all to tell Molly how\nmuch he hoped she loved him; and might have blundered if he had not\nthought of beginning by showing her the flower that was plucked from\nthe nosegay. How charmingly that scene would have been drawn, had\nMrs. Gaskell lived to depict it, we can only imagine: that it _would_\nhave been charming--especially in what Molly did, and looked, and\nsaid--we know.\n\nRoger and Molly are married; and if one of them is happier than\nthe other, it is Molly. Her husband has no need to draw upon the\nlittle fortune which is to go to poor Osborne's boy, for he becomes\nprofessor at some great scientific institution, and wins his way in\nthe world handsomely. The squire is almost as happy in this marriage\nas his son. If any one suffers for it, it is Mr. Gibson. But he takes\na partner, so as to get a chance of running up to London to stay with\nMolly for a few days now and then, and \"to get a little rest from\nMrs. Gibson.\" Of what was to happen to Cynthia after her marriage the\nauthor was not heard to say much; and, indeed, it does not seem that\nanything needs to be added. One little anecdote, however, was told\nof her by Mrs. Gaskell, which is very characteristic. One day, when\nCynthia and her husband were on a visit to Hollingford, Mr. Henderson\nlearned for the first time, through an innocent casual remark of\nMr. Gibson's, that the famous traveller, Roger Hamley, was known to\nthe family. Cynthia had never happened to mention it. How well that\nlittle incident, too, would have been described!\n\nBut it is useless to speculate upon what would have been done by the\ndelicate strong hand which can create no more Molly Gibsons--no more\nRoger Hamleys. We have repeated, in this brief note, all that is\nknown of her designs for the story, which would have been completed\nin another chapter. There is not so much to regret, then, so far as\nthis novel is concerned; indeed, the regrets of those who knew her\nare less for the loss of the novelist than of the woman--one of the\nkindest and wisest of her time. But yet, for her own sake _as_ a\nnovelist alone, her untimely death is a matter for deep regret. It is\nclear in this novel of _Wives and Daughters_, in the exquisite little\nstory that preceded it, _Cousin Phillis_, and in _Sylvia's Lovers_,\nthat Mrs. Gaskell had within these five years started upon a new\ncareer with all the freshness of youth, and with a mind which seemed\nto have put off its clay and to have been born again. But that \"put\noff its clay\" must be taken in a very narrow sense. All minds are\ntinctured more or less with the \"muddy vesture\" in which they are\ncontained; but few minds ever showed less of base earth than Mrs.\nGaskell's. It was so at all times; but lately even the original\nslight tincture seemed to disappear. While you read any one of the\nlast three books we have named, you feel yourself caught out of an\nabominable wicked world, crawling with selfishness and reeking with\nbase passions, into one where there is much weakness, many mistakes,\nsufferings long and bitter, but where it is possible for people to\nlive calm and wholesome lives; and, what is more, you feel that this\nis at least as real a world as the other. The kindly spirit which\nthinks no ill looks out of her pages irradiate; and while we read\nthem, we breathe the purer intelligence which prefers to deal with\nemotions and passions which have a living root in minds within the\npale of salvation, and not with those which rot without it. This\nspirit is more especially declared in _Cousin Phillis_ and _Wives and\nDaughters_--their author's latest works; they seem to show that for\nher the end of life was not descent amongst the clods of the valley,\nbut ascent into the purer air of the heaven-aspiring hills.\n\nWe are saying nothing now of the merely intellectual qualities\ndisplayed in these later works. Twenty years to come, that may be\nthought the more important question of the two; in the presence of\nher grave we cannot think so; but it is true, all the same, that\nas mere works of art and observation, these later novels of Mrs.\nGaskell's are among the finest of our time. There is a scene in\n_Cousin Phyllis_--where Holman, making hay with his men, ends the\nday with a psalm--which is not excelled as a picture in all modern\nfiction; and the same may be said of that chapter of this last story\nin which Roger smokes a pipe with the Squire after the quarrel with\nOsborne. There is little in either of these scenes, or in a score\nof others which succeed each other like gems in a cabinet, which\nthe ordinary novel-maker could \"seize.\" There is no \"material\" for\n_him_ in half-a-dozen farming men singing hymns in a field, or a\ndiscontented old gentleman smoking tobacco with his son. Still less\ncould he avail himself of the miseries of a little girl sent to\nbe happy in a fine house full of fine people; but it is just in\nsuch things as these that true genius appears brightest and most\nunapproachable. It is the same with the personages in Mrs. Gaskell's\nworks. Cynthia is one of the most difficult characters which have\never been attempted in our time. Perfect art always obscures the\ndifficulties it overcomes; and it is not till we try to follow the\nprocesses by which such a character as the Tito of _Romola_ is\ncreated, for instance, that we begin to understand what a marvellous\npiece of work it is. To be sure, Cynthia was not so difficult, nor is\nit nearly so great a creation as that splendid achievement of art and\nthought--of the rarest art, of the profoundest thought. But she also\nbelongs to the kind of characters which are conceived only in minds\nlarge, clear, harmonious and just, and which can be portrayed fully\nand without flaw only by hands obedient to the finest motions of the\nmind. Viewed in this light, Cynthia is a more important piece of work\neven than Molly, delicately as she is drawn, and true and harmonious\nas that picture is also. And what we have said of Cynthia may be\nsaid with equal truth of Osborne Hamley. The true delineation of a\ncharacter like that is as fine a test of art as the painting of a\nfoot or a hand, which also seems so easy, and in which perfection is\nmost rare. In this case the work is perfect. Mrs. Gaskell has drawn\na dozen characters more striking than Osborne since she wrote _Mary\nBarton_, but not one which shows more exquisite finish.\n\nAnother thing we may be permitted to notice, because it has a great\nand general significance. It may be true that this is not exactly\nthe place for criticism, but since we are writing of Osborne Hamley,\nwe cannot resist pointing out a peculiar instance of the subtler\nconceptions which underlie all really considerable works. Here are\nOsborne and Roger, two men who, in every particular that can be\nseized for _description_, are totally different creatures. Body and\nmind they are quite unlike. They have different tastes; they take\ndifferent ways: they are men of two sorts which, in the society\nsense, never \"know\" each other; and yet, never did brotherly blood\nrun more manifest than in the veins of those two. To make that\nmanifest without allowing the effort to peep out for a single moment,\nwould be a triumph of art; but it is a \"touch beyond the reach of\nart\" to make their likeness in unlikeness so natural a thing that we\nno more wonder about it than we wonder at seeing the fruit and the\nbloom on the same bramble: we have always seen them there together in\nblackberry season, and do not wonder about it nor think about it at\nall. Inferior writers, even some writers who are highly accounted,\nwould have revelled in the \"contrast,\" persuaded that they were\ndoing a fine anatomical dramatic thing by bringing it out at every\nopportunity. To the author of _Wives and Daughters_ this sort of\nanatomy was mere dislocation. She began by having the people of her\nstory born in the usual way, and not built up like the Frankenstein\nmonster; and thus when Squire Hamley took a wife, it was then\nprovided that his two boys should be as naturally one and diverse as\nthe fruit and the bloom on the bramble. \"It goes without speaking.\"\nThese differences are precisely what might have been expected\nfrom the union of Squire Hamley with the town-bred, refined,\ndelicate-minded woman whom he married; and the affection of the young\nmen, their kindness (to use the word in its old and new meanings at\nonce) is nothing but a reproduction of those impalpable threads of\nlove which bound the equally diverse father and mother in bonds\nfaster than the ties of blood.\n\nBut we will not permit ourselves to write any more in this vein. It\nis unnecessary to demonstrate to those who know what is and what\nis not true literature that Mrs. Gaskell was gifted with some of\nthe choicest faculties bestowed upon mankind; that these grew into\ngreater strength and ripened into greater beauty in the decline of\nher days; and that she has gifted us with some of the truest, purest\nworks of fiction in the language. And she was herself what her works\nshow her to have been--a wise, good woman."