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Title: Wives and Daughters

Author: Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

Release Date: July, 2003  [EBook #4274]
[Edition 10 was first posted on December 26, 2001]
[This edition was first posted on June 26, 2003]

Edition: 11

Language: English

Character set encoding: US-ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, WIVES AND DAUGHTERS ***




This e-text was produced by Charles Aldarondo and revised for this
edition by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.



WIVES AND DAUGHTERS

BY

ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL







CHAPTER I

THE DAWN OF A GALA DAY


To begin with the old rigmarole of childhood. In a country there was a
shire, and in that shire there was a town, and in that town there was a
house, and in that house there was a room, and in that room there was a
bed, and in that bed there lay a little girl; wide awake and longing to
get up, but not daring to do so for fear of the unseen power in the
next room--a certain Betty, whose slumbers must not be disturbed until
six o'clock struck, when she wakened of herself 'as sure as clockwork',
and left the household very little peace afterwards. It was a June
morning, and early as it was, the room was full of sunny warmth and
light.

On the drawers opposite to the little white dimity bed in which Molly
Gibson lay, was a primitive kind of bonnet-stand on which was hung a
bonnet, carefully covered over from any chance of dust, with a large
cotton handkerchief, of so heavy and serviceable a texture that if the
thing underneath it had been a flimsy fabric of gauze and lace and
flowers, it would have been altogether 'scromfished' (again to quote
from Betty's vocabulary). But the bonnet was made of solid straw, and
its only trimming was a plain white ribbon put over the crown, and
forming the strings. Still, there was a neat little quilling inside,
every plait of which Molly knew, for had she not made it herself the
evening before, with infinite pains? and was there not a little blue
bow in this quilling, the very first bit of such finery Molly had ever
had the prospect of wearing?

Six o'clock now! the pleasant, brisk ringing of the church bells told
that; calling every one to their daily work, as they had done for
hundreds of years. Up jumped Molly, and ran with her bare little feet
across the room, and lifted off the handkerchief and saw once again the
bonnet; the pledge of the gay bright day to come. Then to the window,
and after some tugging she opened the casement, and let in the sweet
morning air. The dew was already off the flowers in the garden below,
but still rising from the long hay-grass in the meadows directly
beyond. At one side lay the little town of Hollingford, into a street
of which Mr. Gibson's front door opened; and delicate columns, and
little puffs of smoke were already beginning to rise from many a
cottage chimney where some housewife was already up, and preparing
breakfast for the bread-winner of the family.

Molly Gibson saw all this, but all she thought about it was, 'Oh! it
will be a fine day! I was afraid it never, never would come; or that,
if it ever came, it would be a rainy day!' Five-and-forty years ago,
children's pleasures in a country town were very simple, and Molly had
lived for twelve long years without the occurrence of any event so
great as that which was now impending. Poor child! it is true that she
had lost her mother, which was a jar to the whole tenour of her life;
but that was hardly an event in the sense referred to; and besides, she
had been too young to be conscious of it at the time. The pleasure she
was looking forward to to-day was her first share in a kind of annual
festival in Hollingford.

The little straggling town faded away into country on one side close to
the entrance-lodge of a great park, where lived my Lord and Lady Cumnor
'the earl' and 'the countess', as they were always called by the
inhabitants of the town; where a very pretty amount of feudal feeling
still lingered, and showed itself in a number of simple ways, droll
enough to look back upon, but serious matters of importance at the
time. It was before the passing of the Reform Bill, but a good deal of
liberal talk took place occasionally between two or three of the more
enlightened freeholders living in Hollingford; and there was a great
Tory family in the county who, from time to time, came forward and
contested the election with the rival Whig family of Cumnor. One would
have thought that the above-mentioned liberal-talking inhabitants would
have, at least, admitted the possibility of their voting for the Hely-
Harrison, and thus trying to vindicate their independence But no such
thing. 'The earl' was lord of the manor, and owner of much of the land
on which Hollingford was built; he and his household were fed, and
doctored, and, to a certain measure, clothed by the good people of the
town; their fathers' grandfathers had always voted for the eldest son
of Cumnor Towers, and following in the ancestral track every man-jack
in the place gave his vote to the liege lord, totally irrespective of
such chimeras as political opinion.

This was no unusual instance of the influence of the great landowners
over humbler neighbours in those days before railways, and it was well
for a place where the powerful family, who thus overshadowed it, were
of so respectable a character as the Cumnors. They expected to be
submitted to, and obeyed; the simple worship of the townspeople was
accepted by the earl and countess as a right; and they would have stood
still in amazement, and with a horrid memory of the French sansculottes
who were the bugbears of their youth, had any inhabitant of Hollingford
ventured to set his will or opinions in opposition to those of the
earl. But, yielded all that obeisance, they did a good deal for the
town, and were generally condescending, and often thoughtful and kind
in their treatment of their vassals. Lord Cumnor was a forbearing
landlord; putting his steward a little on one side sometimes, and
taking the reins into his own hands now and then, much to the annoyance
of the agent, who was, in fact, too rich and independent to care
greatly for preserving a post where his decisions might any day be
overturned by my lord's taking a fancy to go 'pottering' (as the agent
irreverently expressed it in the sanctuary of his own home), which,
being interpreted, meant that occasionally the earl asked his own
questions of his own tenants, and used his own eyes and ears in the
management of the smaller details of his property. But his tenants
liked my lord all the better for this habit of his. Lord Cumnor had
certainly a little time for gossip, which he contrived to combine with
the failing of personal intervention between the old land-steward and
the tenantry. But, then, the countess made up by her unapproachable
dignity for this weakness of the earl's. Once a year she was
condescending. She and the ladies, her daughters, had set up a school;
not a school after the manner of schools now-a-days, where far better
intellectual teaching is given to the boys and girls of labourers and
workpeople than often falls to the lot of their betters in worldly
estate; but a school of the kind we should call 'industrial', where
girls are taught to sew beautifully, to be capital housemaids, and
pretty fair cooks, and, above all, to dress neatly in a kind of charity
uniform devised by the ladies of Cumnor Towers;--white caps, white
tippets, check aprons, blue gowns, and ready curtseys, and 'please,
ma'ams', being _de rigueur_.

Now, as the countess was absent from the Towers for a considerable part
of the year, she was glad to enlist the sympathy of the Hollingford
ladies in this school, with a view to obtaining their aid as visitors
during the many months that she and her daughters were away. And the
various unoccupied gentlewomen of the town responded to the call of
their liege lady, and gave her their service as required; and along
with it, a great deal of whispered and fussy admiration. 'How good of
the countess! So like the dear countess--always thinking of others!'
and so on; while it was always supposed that no strangers had seen
Hollingford properly, unless they had been taken to the countess's
school, and been duly impressed by the neat little pupils, and the
still neater needlework there to be inspected. In return, there was a
day of honour set apart every summer, when with much gracious and
stately hospitality, Lady Cumnor and her daughters received all the
school visitors at the Towers, the great family mansion standing in
aristocratic seclusion in the centre of the large park, of which one of
the lodges was close to the little town. The order of this annual
festivity was this. About ten o'clock one of the Towers' carriages
rolled through the lodge, and drove to different houses, wherein dwelt
a woman to be honoured; picking them up by ones or twos, till the
loaded carriage drove back again through the ready portals, bowled
along the smooth tree-shaded road, and deposited its covey of smartly-
dressed ladies on the great flight of steps leading to the ponderous
doors of Cumnor Towers. Back again to the town; another picking up of
womankind in their best clothes, and another return, and so on till the
whole party were assembled either in the house or in the really
beautiful gardens. After the proper amount of exhibition on the one
part, and admiration on the other, had been done, there was a collation
for the visitors, and some more display and admiration of the treasures
inside the house. Towards four o'clock, coffee was brought round; and
this was a signal of the approaching carriage that was to take them
back to their own homes; whither they returned with the happy
consciousness of a well-spent day, but with some fatigue at the long-
continued exertion of behaving their best, and talking on stilts for so
many hours. Nor were Lady Cumnor and her daughters free from something
of the same self-approbation, and something, too, of the same fatigue;
the fatigue that always follows on conscious efforts to behave as will
best please the society you are in.

For the first time in her life, Molly Gibson was to be included among
the guests at the Towers. She was much too young to be a visitor at the
school, so it was not on that account that she was to go; but it had so
happened that one day when Lord Cumnor was on a 'pottering' expedition,
he had met Mr. Gibson, _the_ doctor of the neighbourhood, coming out of
the farm-house my lord was entering; and having some small question to
ask the surgeon (Lord Cumnor seldom passed any one of his acquaintance
without asking a question of some sort--not always attending to the
answer; it was his mode of conversation), he accompanied Mr. Gibson to
the out-building, to a ring in the wall of which the surgeon's horse
was fastened. Molly was there too, sitting square and quiet on her
rough little pony, waiting for her father. Her grave eyes opened large
and wide at the close neighbourhood and evident advance of 'the earl';
for to her little imagination the grey-haired, red-faced, somewhat
clumsy man, was a cross between an archangel and a king.

'Your daughter, eh, Gibson?--nice little girl, how old? Pony wants
grooming though,' patting it as he talked. 'What's your name, my dear?
He's sadly behindhand with his rent, as I was saying, but if he's
really ill, I must see after Sheepshanks, who is a hardish man of
business. What's his complaint? You'll come to our school-scrimmage on
Thursday, little girl--what's-your-name? Mind you send her, or bring
her, Gibson; and just give a word to your groom, for I'm sure that pony
wasn't singed last year, now, was he? Don't forget Thursday, little
girl--what's your name?--it's a promise between us, is it not?' And off
the earl trotted, attracted by the sight of the farmer's eldest son on
the other side of the yard.

Mr. Gibson mounted, and he and Molly rode off. They did not speak for
some time. Then she said, 'May I go, papa?' in rather an anxious little
tone of voice.

'Where, my dear?' said he, wakening up out of his own professional
thoughts.

'To the Towers--on Thursday, you know. That gentleman' (she was shy of
calling him by his title) 'asked me.'

'Would you like it, my dear? It has always seemed to me rather a
tiresome piece of gaiety--rather a tiring day, I mean--beginning so
early--and the heat, and all that.'

'Oh, papa!' said Molly reproachfully.

'You'd like to go then, would you?'

'Yes if I may!--He asked me, you know. Don't you think I may?--he asked
me twice over.'

'Well! we'll see--yes! I think we can manage it, if you wish it so
much, Molly.'

Then they were silent again. By-and-by, Molly said:

'Please, papa--I do wish to go--but I don't care about it.'

'That's rather a puzzling speech. But I suppose you mean you don't care
to go, if it will be any trouble to get you there. I can easily manage
it, however, so you may consider it settled. You'll want a white frock,
remember; you'd better tell Betty you're going, and she'll see after
making you tidy.'

Now, there were two or three things to be done by Mr. Gibson, before he
could feel quite comfortable about Molly's going to the festival at the
Towers, and each of them involved a little trouble on his part. But he
was very willing to gratify his little girl; so the next day he rode
over to the Towers, ostensibly to visit some sick housemaid, but, in
reality, to throw himself in my lady's way, and get her to ratify Lord
Cumnor's invitation to Molly. He chose his time, with a little natural
diplomacy; which, indeed, he had often to exercise in his intercourse
with the great family. He rode into the stable-yard about twelve
o'clock, a little before luncheon-time, and yet after the worry of
opening the post-bag and discussing its contents was over. After he had
put up his horse, he went in by the back-way to the house; the 'House'
on this side, the 'Towers' at the front. He saw his patient, gave his
directions to the housekeeper, and then went out, with a rare wild-
flower in his hand, to find one of the ladies Tranmere in the garden,
where, according to his hope and calculation, he came upon Lady Cumnor
too--now talking to her daughter about the contents of an open letter
which she held in her hand, now directing a gardener about certain
bedding-out plants.

'I was calling to see Nanny, and I took the opportunity of bringing
Lady Agnes the plant I was telling her about as growing on Cumnor
Moss.'

'Thank you so much, Mr. Gibson. Mamma, look! this is the _Drosera
rotundifolia_ I have been wanting so long.'

'Ah! yes; very pretty I daresay, only I am no botanist. Nanny is
better, I hope? We can't have any one laid up next week, for the house
will be quite full of people--and here are the Danbys waiting to offer
themselves as well. One comes down for a fortnight of quiet, at
Whitsuntide, and leaves half one's establishment in town, and as soon
as people know of our being here, we get letters without end, longing
for a breath of country air, or saying how lovely the Towers must look
in spring; and I must own, Lord Cumnor is a great deal to blame for it
all, for as soon as ever we are down here, he rides about to all the
neighbours, and invites them to come over and spend a few days.'

'We shall go back to town on Friday the 18th,' said Lady Agnes, in a
consolatory tone.

'Ah, yes! as soon as we have got over the school visitors' affair. But
it is a week to that happy day.'

'By the way!' said Mr. Gibson, availing himself of the good opening
thus presented, 'I met my lord at the Cross-trees Farm yesterday, and
he was kind enough to ask my little daughter, who was with me, to be
one of the party here on Thursday; it would give the lassie great
pleasure, I believe.' He paused for Lady Cumnor to speak.

'Oh, well! if my lord asked her, I suppose she must come, but I wish he
was not so amazingly hospitable! Not but what the little girl will be
quite welcome; only, you see, he met a younger Miss Browning the other
day, of whose existence I had never heard.'

'She visits at the school, mamma,' said Lady Agnes.

'Well, perhaps she does; I never said she did not. I knew there was one
visitor of the name of Browning; I never knew there were two, but, of
course, as soon as Lord Cumnor heard there was another, he must needs
ask her; so the carriage will have to go backwards and forwards four
times now to fetch them all. So your daughter can come quite easily,
Mr. Gibson, and I shall be very glad to see her for your sake. She can
sit bodkin with the Brownings, I suppose? You'll arrange it all with
them; and mind you get Nanny well up to her work next week.'

Just as Mr. Gibson was going away, Lady Cumnor called after him, 'Oh!
by-the-bye, Clare is here; you remember Clare, don't you? She was a
patient of yours, long ago.'

'Clare!' he repeated, in a bewildered tone.

'Don't you recollect her? Miss Clare, our old governess,' said Lady
Agnes. 'About twelve or fourteen years ago, before Lady Cuxhaven was
married.'

'Oh, yes!' said he. 'Miss Clare, who had the scarlet fever here; a very
pretty delicate girl. But I thought she was married!'

'Yes!' said Lady Cumnor. 'She was a silly little thing, and did not
know when she was well off; we were all very fond of her, I'm sure. She
went and married a poor curate, and became a stupid Mrs. Kirkpatrick;
but we always kept on calling her 'Clare.' And now he's dead, and left
her a widow, and she is staying here; and we are racking our brains to
find out some way of helping her to a livelihood without parting her
from her child. She's somewhere about the grounds, if you like to renew
your acquaintance with her.'

'Thank you, my lady. I'm afraid I cannot stop to-day. I have a long
round to go; I've stayed here too long as it is, I'm afraid.'

Long as his ride had been that day, he called on the Miss Brownings in
the evening, to arrange about Molly's accompanying them to the Towers.
They were tall handsome women, past their first youth, and inclined to
be extremely complaisant to the widowed doctor.

'Eh dear! Mr. Gibson, but we shall he delighted to have her with us.
You should never have thought of asking us such a thing,' said Miss
Browning the elder.

'I'm sure I'm hardly sleeping at nights for thinking of it,' said Miss
Phoebe. 'You know I've never been there before. Sister has many a time;
but somehow, though my name has been down on the visitors' list these
three years, the countess has never named me in her note; and you know
I could not push myself into notice, and go to such a grand place
without being asked; how could I?'

'I told Phoebe last year,' said her sister, 'that I was sure it was
only inadvertence, as one may call it, on the part of the countess, and
that her ladyship would be as hurt as any one when she didn't see
Phoebe among the school visitors; but Phoebe has got a delicate mind,
you see Mr. Gibson, and for all I could say she wouldn't go, but
stopped here at home; and it spoilt all my pleasure all that day, I do
assure you, to think of Phoebe's face, as I saw it over the window-
blinds, as I rode away; her eyes were full of tears, if you'll believe
me.'

'I had a good cry alter you was gone, Sally,' said Miss Phoebe; 'but
for all that, I think I was right in stopping away from where I was not
asked. Don't you, Mr. Gibson?'

'Certainly,' said he. 'And you see you are going this year; and last
year it rained.'

'Yes! I remember! I set myself to tidy my drawers, to string myself up,
as it were; and I was so taken up with what I was about that I was
quite startled when I heard the rain beating against the window-panes.
'Goodness me!' said I to myself, 'whatever will become of sister's
white satin shoes, if she has to walk about on soppy grass after such
rain as this?' for, you see, I thought a deal about her having a pair
of smart shoes; and this year she has gone and got me a white satin
pair just as smart as hers, for a surprise.'

'Molly will know she's to put on her best clothes,' said Miss Browning.
'We could perhaps lend her a few beads, or artificials, if she wants
them.'

'Molly must go in a clean white frock,' said Mr. Gibson, rather
hastily; for he did not admire the Miss Brownings' taste in dress, and
was unwilling to have his child decked up according to their fancy; he
esteemed his old servant Betty's as the more correct, because the more
simple. Miss Browning had just a shade of annoyance in her tone as she
drew herself up, and said, 'Oh! very well. It's quite right, I'm sure.'
But Miss Phoebe said, 'Molly will look very nice in whatever she puts
on, that's certain.'




CHAPTER II

A NOVICE AMONGST THE GREAT FOLK


At ten o'clock on the eventful Thursday the Towers' carriage began its
work. Molly was ready long before it made its first appearance,
although it had been settled that she and the Miss Brownings were not
to go until the last, or fourth, time of its coming. Her face had been
soaped, scrubbed, and shone brilliantly clean; her frills, her frock,
her ribbons were all snow-white. She had on a black mode cloak that had
been her mother's; it was trimmed round with rich lace, and looked
quaint and old-fashioned on the child. For the first time in her life
she wore kid gloves; hitherto she had only had cotton ones. Her gloves
were far too large for the little dimpled fingers, but as Betty had
told her they were to last her for years, it was all very well. She
trembled many a time, and almost turned faint once with the long
expectation of the morning. Betty might say what she liked about a
watched pot never boiling; Molly never ceased to watch the approach
through the winding street, and after two hours the carriage came for
her at last. She had to sit very forward to avoid crushing the Miss
Brownings' new dresses; and yet not too forward, for fear of
incommoding fat Mrs. Goodenough and her niece, who occupied the front
seat of the carriage; so that altogether the fact of sitting down at
all was rather doubtful, and to add to her discomfort, Molly felt
herself to be very conspicuously placed in the centre of the carriage,
a mark for all the observation of Hollingford. It was far too much of a
gala day for the work of the little town to go forward with its usual
regularity. Maid-servants gazed out of upper windows; shopkeepers'
wives stood on the doorsteps; cottagers ran out, with babies in their
arms; and little children, too young to know how to behave respectfully
at the sight of an earl's carriage, huzzaed merrily as it bowled along.
The woman at the lodge held the gate open, and dropped a low curtsey to
the liveries. And now they were in the Park; and now they were in sight
of the Towers, and silence fell upon the carriage-full of ladies, only
broken by one faint remark from Mrs. Goodenough's niece, a stranger to
the town, as they drew up before the double semicircle flight of steps
which led to the door of the mansion.

'They call that a perron, I believe, don't they?' she asked. But the
only answer she obtained was a simultaneous 'hush.' It was very awful,
as Molly thought, and she half wished herself at home again. But she
lost all consciousness of herself by-and-by when the party strolled out
into the beautiful grounds, the like of which she had never even
imagined. Green velvet lawns, bathed in sunshine, stretched away on
every side into the finely wooded park; if there were divisions and ha-
has between the soft sunny sweeps of grass, and the dark gloom of the
forest-trees beyond, Molly did not see them; and the melting away of
exquisite cultivation into the wilderness had an inexplicable charm to
her. Near the house there were walls and fences; but they were covered
with climbing roses, and rare honeysuckles and other creepers just
bursting into bloom, There were flower-beds, too, scarlet, crimson,
blue, orange; masses of blossom lying on the greensward. Molly held
Miss Browning's hand very tight as they loitered about in company with
several other ladies, and marshalled by a daughter of the Towers, who
seemed half amused at the voluble admiration showered down upon every
possible thing and place. Molly said nothing, as became her age and
position, but every now and then she relieved her full heart by drawing
a deep breath, almost like a sigh. Presently they came to the long
glittering range of greenhouses and hothouses, and an attendant
gardener was there to admit the party. Molly did not care for this half
so much as for the flowers in the open air; but Lady Agnes had a more
scientific taste, she expatiated on the rarity of this, and the mode of
cultivation required by that plant, till Molly began to feel very
tired, and then very faint. She was too shy to speak for some time; but
at length, afraid of making a greater sensation if she began to cry, or
if she fell against the stands of precious flowers, she caught at Miss
Browning's hand, and gasped out,--'May I go back, out into the garden?
I can't breathe here!'

'Oh, yes, to be sure, love. I dare say it's hard understanding for you,
love; but it's very fine and instructive, and a deal of Latin in it
too.'

She turned hastily round not to lose another word of Lady Agnes'
lecture on orchids, and Molly turned back and passed out of the heated
atmosphere. She felt better in the fresh air; and unobserved, and at
liberty, went from one lovely spot to another, now in the open park,
now in some shut-in flower-garden, where the song of the birds, and the
drip of the central fountain, were the only sounds, and the tree-tops
made an enclosing circle in the blue June sky; she went along without
more thought as to her whereabouts than a butterfly has, as it skims
from flower to flower, till at length she grew very weary, and wished
to return to the house, but did not know how, and felt afraid of
encountering all the strangers who would be there, unprotected by
either of the Miss Brownings. The hot sun told upon her head, and it
began to ache. She saw a great wide-spreading cedar-tree upon a burst
of lawn towards which she was advancing, and the black repose beneath
its branches lured her thither. There was a rustic seat in the shadow,
and weary Molly sate down there, and presently fell asleep.

She was startled from her slumbers after a time, and jumped to her
feet. Two ladies were standing by her, talking about her. They were
perfect strangers to her, and with a vague conviction that she had done
something wrong, and also because she was worn-out with hunger,
fatigue, and the morning's excitement, she began to cry.

'Poor little woman! She has lost herself; she belongs to some of the
people from Hollingford, I have no doubt,' said the oldest-looking of
the two ladies; she who appeared to be about forty, although she did
not really number more than thirty years. She was plain-featured, and
had rather a severe expression on her face; her dress was as rich as
any morning dress could be; her voice deep and unmodulated,--what in a
lower rank of life would have been called gruff; but that was not a
word to apply to Lady Cuxhaven, the eldest daughter of the earl and
countess. The other lady looked much younger, but she was in fact some
years the elder; at first sight Molly thought she was the most
beautiful person she had ever seen, and she was certainly a very lovely
woman. Her voice, too, was soft and plaintive, as she replied to Lady
Cuxhaven,--

'Poor little darling! she is overcome by the heat, I have no doubt--
such a heavy straw bonnet, too. Let me untie it for you, my dear.'

Molly now found voice to say,--'I am Molly Gibson, please. I came here
with the Miss Brownings;' for her great fear was that she should be
taken for an unauthorized intruder.

'The Miss Brownings?' said Lady Cuxhaven to her companion, as if
inquiringly.

'I think they were the two tall large young women that Lady Agnes was
taking about.'

'Oh, I dare say. I saw she had a number of people in tow;' then looking
again at Molly, she said, 'Have you had anything to eat, child, since
you came? You look a very white little thing; or is it the heat?'

'I have had nothing to eat,' said Molly, rather piteously; for, indeed,
before she fell asleep she had been very hungry.

The two ladies spoke to each other in a low voice; then the elder said
in a voice of authority, which, indeed, she had always used in speaking
to the other, 'Sit still here, my dear; we are going to the house, and
Clare shall bring you something to eat before you try to walk back; it
must be a quarter of a mile at least.' So they went away, and Molly
sate upright, waiting for the promised messenger. She did not know who
Clare might be, and she did not care much for food now; but she felt as
if she could not walk without some help. At length she saw the pretty
lady coming back, followed by a footman with a small tray.

'Look how kind Lady Cuxhaven is,' said she who was called Clare. 'She
chose out this little lunch herself; and now you must try and eat it,
and you'll be quite right when you've had some food, darling--You need
not stop, Edwards; I will bring the tray back with me.'

There was some bread, and some cold chicken, and some jelly, and a
glass of wine, and a bottle of sparkling water, and a bunch of grapes;
Molly put out her trembling little hand for the water; but she was too
faint to hold it. Clare put it to her mouth, and she took a long
draught and was refreshed. But she could not eat; she tried, but she
could not; her headache was too bad. Clare looked bewildered. 'Take
some grapes, they will be the best for you; you must try and eat
something, or I don't know how I shall get you to the house.'

'My head aches so,' said Molly, lifting her heavy eyes wistfully.

'Oh, dear, how tiresome!' said Clare, still in her sweet gentle voice,
not at all as if she was angry, only expressing an obvious truth. Molly
felt very guilty and very unhappy. Clare went on, with a shade of
asperity in her tone: 'You see, I don't know what to do with you here
if you don't eat enough to enable you to walk home. And I've been out
for these three hours trapesing about the grounds till I'm as tired as
can be, and missed my lunch and all.' Then, as if a new idea had struck
her, she said,--'You lie back in that seat for a few minutes, and try
to eat the bunch of grapes, and I'll wait for you, and just be eating a
mouthful meanwhile. You are sure you don't want this chicken?'

Molly did as she was bid, and leant back, picking languidly at the
grapes, and watching the good appetite with which the lady ate up the
chicken and jelly, and drank the glass of wine. She was so pretty and
so graceful in her deep mourning, that even her hurry in eating, as if
she was afraid of some one coming to surprise her in the act, did not
keep her little observer from admiring her in all she did.

'And now, darling, are you ready to go?' said she, when she had eaten
up everything on the tray. 'Oh, come; you have nearly finished your
grapes; that's a good girl. Now, if you will come with me to the side
entrance, I will take you up to my own room, and you shall lie down on
the bed for an hour or two; and if you have a good nap your headache
will be quite gone.'

So they set off, Clare carrying the empty tray, rather to Molly's
shame; but the child had enough work to drag herself along, and was
afraid of offering to do anything more. The 'side entrance' was a
flight of steps leading up from a private flower-garden into a private
matted hall, or ante-room, out of which many doors opened, and in which
were deposited the light garden-tools and the bows and arrows of the
young ladies of the house. Lady Cuxhaven must have seen their approach,
for she met them in this hall as soon as they came in.

'How is she now?' she asked; then glancing at the plates and glasses,
she added, 'Come, I think there can't be much amiss! You're a good old
Clare, but you should have let one of the men fetch that tray in; life
in such weather as this is trouble enough of itself.'

Molly could not help wishing that her pretty companion would have told
Lady Cuxhaven that she herself had helped to finish up the ample
luncheon; but no such idea seemed to come into her mind. She only
said,--'Poor dear! she is not quite the thing yet; has got a headache,
she says. I am going to put her down on my bed, to see if she can get a
little sleep.'

Molly saw Lady Cuxhaven say something in a half-laughing manner to
'Clare,' as she passed her; and the child could not keep from
tormenting herself by fancying that the words spoken sounded
wonderfully like 'Over-eaten herself, I suspect.' However, she felt too
poorly to worry herself long; the little white bed in the cool and
pretty room had too many attractions for her aching head. The muslin
curtains flapped softly from time to time in the scented air that came
through the open windows. Clare covered her up with a light shawl, and
darkened the room. As she was going away Molly roused herself to say,
'Please, ma'am, don't let them go away without me. Please ask somebody
to waken me if I go to sleep. I am to go back with the Miss Brownings.'

'Don't trouble yourself about it, dear; I'll take care,' said Clare,
turning round at the door, and kissing her hand to little anxious
Molly. And then she went away, and thought no more about it. The
carriages came round at half-past four, hurried a little by Lady
Cumnor, who had suddenly become tired of the business of entertaining,
and annoyed at the repetition of indiscriminating admiration.

'Why not have both carriages out, mamma, and get rid of them all at
once?' said Lady Cuxhaven. 'This going by instalments is the most
tiresome thing that could be imagined.' So at last there had been a
great hurry and an unmethodical way of packing off every one at once.
Miss Browning had gone in the chariot (or 'chawyot,' as Lady Cumnor
called it;--it rhymed to her daughter, Lady Hawyot--or Harriet, as the
name was spelt in the _Peerage_), and Miss Phoebe had been speeded
along with several other guests, away in a great roomy family
conveyance, of the kind which we should now call an 'omnibus.' Each
thought that Molly Gibson was with the other, and the truth was, that
she lay fast asleep on Mrs. Kirkpatrick's bed--Mrs. Kirkpatrick _nee_
Clare.

The housemaids came in to arrange the room. Their talking aroused
Molly, who sate up on the bed, and tried to push back the hair from her
hot forehead, and to remember where she was. She dropped down on her
feet by the side of the bed, to the astonishment of the women, and
said,--'Please, how soon are we going away?'

'Bless us and save us! who'd ha' thought of any one being in the bed?
Are you one of the Hollingford ladies, my dear? They are all gone this
hour or more!'

'Oh, dear, what shall I do? That lady they call Clare promised to waken
me in time. Papa will so wonder where I am, and I don't know what Betty
will say.'

The child began to cry, and the housemaids looked at each other in some
dismay and much sympathy. Just then, they heard Mrs Kirkpatrick's step
along the passages, approaching. She was singing some little Italian
air in a low musical voice, coming to her bedroom to dress for dinner.
One housemaid said to the other, with a knowing look, 'Best leave it to
her;' and they passed on to their work in the other rooms.

Mrs. Kirkpatrick opened the door, and stood aghast at the sight of
Molly.

'Why, I quite forgot you!' she said at length. 'Nay, don't cry; you'll
make yourself not fit to be seen. Of course I must take the
consequences of your over-sleeping yourself, and if I can't manage to
get you back to Hollingford to-night, you shall sleep with me, and
we'll do our best to send you home to-morrow morning.'

'But papa!' sobbed out Molly. 'He always wants me to make tea for him;
and I have no night-things.'

'Well, don't go and make a piece of work about what can't be helped
now. I'll lend you night-things, and your papa must do without your
making tea for him to-night. And another time don't over-sleep yourself
in a strange house; you may not always find yourself among such
hospitable people as they are here. Why now, if you don't cry and make
a figure of yourself, I'll ask if you may come in to dessert with
Master Smythe and the little ladies. You shall go into the nursery, and
have some tea with them; and then you must come back here and brush
your hair and make yourself tidy. I think it is a very fine thing for
you to be stopping in such a grand house as this; many a little girl
would like nothing better.'

During this speech she was arranging her _toilette_ for dinner--taking
off her black morning gown; putting on her dressing-gown; shaking her
long soft auburn hair over her shoulders, and glancing about the room
in search of various articles of her dress,--a running flow of easy
talk came babbling out all the time.

'I have a little girl of my own, dear! I don't know what she would not
give to be staying here at Lord Cumnor's with me; but, instead of that,
she has to spend her holidays at school; and yet you are looking as
miserable as can be at the thought of stopping for just one night. I
really have been as busy as can be with those tiresome--those good
ladies, I mean, from Hollingford--and one can't think of everything at
a time.'

Molly--only child as she was--had stopped her tears at the mention of
that little girl of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, and now she ventured to say,--

'Are you married, ma'am; I thought she called you Clare?'

In high good humour Mrs. Kirkpatrick made reply:--'I don't look as if I
was married, do I? Every one is surprised. And yet I have been a widow
for seven months now: and not a grey hair on my head, though Lady
Cuxhaven, who is younger than I, has ever so many.'

'Why do they call you "Clare"?' continued Molly, finding her so affable
and communicative.

'Because I lived with them when I was Miss Clare. It is a pretty name,
isn't it? I married a Mr. Kirkpatrick; he was only a curate, poor
fellow; but he was of a very good family, and if three of his relations
had died without children I should have been a baronet's wife. But
Providence did not see fit to permit it; and we must always resign
ourselves to what is decreed. Two of his cousins married, and had large
families; and poor dear Kirkpatrick died, leaving me a widow.'

'But you have a little girl?' asked Molly.

'Yes; darling Cynthia! I wish you could see her; she is my only comfort
now. If I have time I will show you her picture when we come up to bed;
but I must go now. It does not do to keep Lady Cumnor waiting a moment,
and she asked me to be down early, to help with some of the people in
the house. Now I shall ring this bell, and when the housemaid comes,
ask her to take you into the nursery, and to tell Lady Cuxhaven's nurse
who you are. And then you'll have tea with the little ladies, and come
in with them to dessert. There! I'm sorry you've overslept yourself,
and are left here; but give me a kiss, and don't cry--you really are
rather a pretty child, though you've not got Cynthia's colouring! Oh,
Nanny, would you be so very kind as to take this young lady--(what's
your name, my dear? Gibson?),--Miss Gibson, to Mrs. Dyson, in the
nursery, and ask her to allow her to drink tea with the young ladies
there; and to send her in with them to dessert. I'll explain it all to
my lady.'

Nanny's face brightened out of its gloom when she heard the name
Gibson; and, having ascertained from Molly that she was 'the doctor's'
child, she showed more willingness to comply with Mrs Kirkpatrick's
request than was usual with her.

Molly was an obliging girl, and fond of children; so, as long as she
was in the nursery, she got on pretty well, being obedient to the
wishes of the supreme power, and even very useful to Mrs. Dyson, by
playing at bricks, and thus keeping a little one quiet while its
brothers and sisters were being arrayed in gay attire,--lace and
muslin, and velvet, and brilliant broad ribbons.

'Now, miss,' said Mrs. Dyson, when her own especial charge were all
ready, 'what can I do for you? You have not got another frock here,
have you?' No, indeed, she had not; nor if she had had one, would it
have been of a smarter nature than her present thick white dimity. So
she could only wash her face and hands, and submit to the nurse's
brushing and perfuming her hair. She thought she would rather have
stayed in the park all night long, and slept under the beautiful quiet
cedar, than have to undergo the unknown ordeal of 'going down to
dessert,' which was evidently regarded both by children and nurses as
the event of the day. At length there was a summons from a footman, and
Mrs. Dyson, in a rustling silk gown, marshalled her convoy, and set
sail for the dining-room door.

There was a large party of gentlemen and ladies sitting round the
decked table, in the brilliantly lighted room. Each dainty little child
ran up to its mother, or aunt, or particular friend; but Molly had no
one to go to.

'Who is that tall girl in the thick white frock? Not one of the
children of the house, I think?'

The lady addressed put up her glass, gazed at Molly, and dropped it in
an instant. 'A French girl, I should imagine. I know Lady Cuxhaven was
inquiring for one to bring up with her little girls, that they might
get a good accent early. Poor little woman, she looks wild and
strange!' And the speaker, who sate next to Lord Cumnor, made a little
sign to Molly to come to her; Molly crept up to her as to the first
shelter; but when the lady began talking to her in French, she blushed
violently, and said, in a very low voice,--

'I don't understand French. I'm only Molly Gibson, ma'am.'

'Molly Gibson!' said the lady, out loud; as if that was not much of an
explanation.

Lord Cumnor caught the words and the tone.

'Oh, ho!' said he. 'Are you the little girl who has been sleeping in my
bed?'

He imitated the deep voice of the fabulous bear, who asks this question
of the little child in the story; but Molly had never read the 'Three
Bears,' and fancied that his anger was real; she trembled a little, and
drew nearer to the kind lady who had beckoned her as to a refuge. Lord
Cumnor was very fond of getting hold of what he fancied was a joke, and
working his idea threadbare; so all the time the ladies were in the
room he kept on his running fire at Molly, alluding to the Sleeping
Beauty, the Seven Sleepers, and any other famous sleeper that came into
his head. He had no idea of the misery his jokes were to the sensitive
girl, who already thought herself a miserable sinner, for having slept
on, when she ought to have been awake. If Molly had been in the habit
of putting two and two together, she might have found an excuse for
herself, by remembering that Mrs. Kirkpatrick had promised faithfully
to awaken her in time; but all the girl thought of was, how little they
wanted her in this grand house; how she must seem like a careless
intruder who had no business there. Once or twice she wondered where
her father was, and whether he was missing her; but the thought of the
familiar happiness of home brought such a choking in her throat, that
she felt she must not give way to it, for fear of bursting out crying;
and she had instinct enough to feel that, as she was left at the
Towers, the less trouble she gave, the more she kept herself out of
observation, the better.

She followed the ladies out of the dining-room, almost hoping that no
one would see her. But that was impossible, and she immediately became
the subject of conversation between the awful Lady Cumnor and her kind
neighbour at dinner.

'Do you know, I thought this young lady was French when I first saw
her? she has got the black hair and eyelashes, and grey eyes, and
colourless complexion which one meets with in some parts of France, and
I knew Lady Cuxhaven was trying to find a well-educated girl who would
be a pleasant companion to her children.'

'No!' said Lady Cumnor, looking very stern, as Molly thought. 'She is
the daughter of our medical man at Hollingford; she came with the
school visitors this morning, and she was overcome by the heat and fell
asleep in Clare's room, and somehow managed to oversleep herself, and
did not waken up till all the carriages were gone. We will send her
home to-morrow morning, but for to-night she must stay here, and Clare
is kind enough to say she may sleep with her.'

There was an implied blame running through this speech, that Molly felt
like needle-points all over her. Lady Cuxhaven came up at this moment.
Her tone was as deep, her manner of speaking as abrupt and
authoritative, as her mother's, but Molly felt the kinder nature
underneath.

'How are you now, my dear? You look better than you did under the
cedar-tree. So you're to stop here to-night? Clare, don't you think we
could find some of those books of engravings that would interest Miss
Gibson.'

Mrs. Kirkpatrick came gliding up to the place where Molly stood; and
began petting her with pretty words and actions, while Lady Cuxhaven
turned over heavy volumes in search of one that might interest the
girl.

'Poor darling! I saw you come into the dining-room, looking so shy; and
I wanted you to come near me, but I could not make a sign to you,
because Lord Cuxhaven was speaking to me at the time, telling me about
his travels. Ah, here is a nice book--_Lodge's Portraits_; now I'll sit
by you and tell you who they all are, and all about them. Don't trouble
yourself any more, dear Lady Cuxhaven; I'll take charge of her; pray
leave her to me!'

Molly grew hotter and hotter as these last words met her car. If they
would only leave her alone, and not labour at being kind to her; would
'not trouble themselves' about her! These words of Mrs Kirkpatrick's
seemed to quench the gratitude she was feeling to Lady Cuxhaven for
looking for something to amuse her. But, of course, it was a trouble,
and she ought never to have been there.

By-and-by, Mrs. Kirkpatrick was called away to accompany Lady Agnes'
song; and then Molly really had a few minutes' enjoyment. She could
look round the room, unobserved, and, sure, never was any place out of
a king's house so grand and magnificent. Large mirrors, velvet
curtains, pictures in their gilded frames, a multitude of dazzling
lights decorated the vast saloon, and the floor was studded with groups
of ladies and gentlemen, all dressed in gorgeous attire. Suddenly Molly
bethought her of the children whom she had accompanied into the dining-
room, and to whose ranks she had appeared to belong,--where were they?
Gone to bed an hour before, at some quiet signal from their mother.
Molly wondered if she might go, too--if she could ever find her way
back to the haven of Mrs Kirkpatrick's bedroom. But she was at some
distance from the door; a long way from Mrs. Kirkpatrick, to whom she
felt herself to belong more than to any one else. Far, too, from Lady
Cuxhaven, and the terrible Lady Cumnor, and her jocose and good-natured
lord. So Molly sate on, turning over pictures which she did not see;
her heart growing heavier and heavier in the desolation of all this
grandeur. Presently a footman entered the room, and after a moment's
looking about him, he went up to Mrs. Kirkpatrick, where she sate at
the piano, the centre of the musical portion of the company, ready to
accompany any singer, and smiling pleasantly as she willingly acceded
to all requests. She came now towards Molly, in her corner, and said to
her,--

'Do you know, darling, your papa has come for you, and brought your
pony for you to ride home; so I shall lose my little bedfellow, for I
suppose you must go.'

Go! was there a question of it in Molly's mind, as she stood up
quivering, sparkling, almost crying out loud. She was brought to her
senses, though, by Mrs. Kirkpatrick's next words,

'You must go and wish Lady Cumnor good-night, you know, my dear, and
thank her ladyship for her kindness to you, She is there, near that
statue, talking to Mr. Courtenay.'

Yes! she was there--forty feet away--a hundred miles away! All that
blank space had to be crossed; and then a speech to be made!

'Must I go?' asked Molly, in the most pitiful and pleading voice
possible.

'Yes; make haste about it; there is nothing so formidable in it, is
there?' replied Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a sharper voice than before, aware
that they were wanting her at the piano, and anxious to get the
business in hand done as soon as possible.

Molly stood still for a minute, then, looking up, she said, softly,--

'Would you mind coming with me, please?'

'No! not I!' said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, seeing that her compliance was
likely to be the most speedy way of getting through the affair; so she
took Molly's hand, and, on the way, in passing the group at the piano,
she said, smiling, in her pretty genteel manner,--

'Our little friend here is shy and modest, and wants me to accompany
her to Lady Cumnor to wish good-night; her father has come for her, and
she is going away.'

Molly did not know how it was afterwards, but she pulled her hand out
of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's on hearing these words, and going a step or two
in advance came up to Lady Cumnor, grand in purple velvet, and dropping
a curtsey, almost after the fashion of the school-children, she said,--

'My lady, papa is come, and I am going away; and, my lady, I wish you
good-night, and thank you for your kindness. Your ladyship's kindness,
I mean,' she said, correcting herself as she remembered Miss Browning's
particular instructions as to the etiquette to be observed to earls and
countesses, and their honourable progeny, as they were given this
morning on the road to the Towers.

She got out of the saloon somehow; she believed afterwards, on thinking
about it, that she had never bidden good-by to Lady Cuxhaven, or Mrs.
Kirkpatrick, or 'all the rest of them,' as she irreverently styled them
in her thoughts.

Mr. Gibson was in the housekeeper's room, when Molly ran in, rather to
the stately Mrs. Brown's discomfiture. She threw her arms round her
father's neck. 'Oh, papa, papa, papa! I am so glad you have come;' and
then she burst out crying, stroking his face almost hysterically as if
to make sure he was there.

'Why, what a noodle you are, Molly! Did you think I was going to give
up my little girl to live at the Towers all the rest of her life? You
make as much work about my coming for you, as if you thought I had.
Make haste now, and get on your bonnet. Mrs. Brown, may I ask you for a
shawl, or a plaid, or a wrap of some kind to pin about her for a
petticoat?'

He did not mention that he had come home from a long round not half an
hour before, a round from which he had returned dinnerless and hungry;
but, on finding that Molly had not returned from the Towers, he had
ridden his tired horse round by Miss Brownings', and found them in
self-reproachful, helpless dismay. He would not wait to listen to their
tearful apologies; he galloped home, had a fresh horse and Molly's pony
saddled, and though Betty called after him with a riding-skirt for the
child, when he was not ten yards from his own stable-door, he had
refused to turn back for it, but gone off, as Dick the stableman said,
'muttering to himself awful.'

Mrs. Brown had her bottle of wine out, and her plate of cake, before
Molly came back from her long expedition to Mrs. Kirkpatrick's room,
'pretty nigh on to a quarter of a mile off,' as the housekeeper
informed the impatient father, as he waited for his child to come down
arrayed in her morning's finery with the gloss of newness worn off. Mr.
Gibson was a favourite in all the Towers' household, as family doctors
generally are; bringing hopes of relief at times of anxiety and
distress; and Mrs. Brown, who was subject to gout, especially delighted
in petting him whenever he would allow her. She even went out into the
stable-yard to pin Molly up in the shawl, as she sate upon the rough-
coated pony, and hazarded the somewhat safe conjecture,--

'I dare say she'll be happier at home, Mr. Gibson,' as they rode away.

Once out into the park Molly struck her pony, and urged him on as hard
as he would go, Mr. Gibson called out at last,--

'Molly! we're coming to the rabbit-holes; it's not safe to go at such a
pace. Stop.' And as she drew rein he rode up alongside of her.

'We're getting into the shadow of the trees, and it's not safe riding
fast here.'

'Oh! papa, I never was so glad in all my life. I felt like a lighted
candle when they're putting the extinguisher on it.'

'Did you? How d'ye know what the candle feels?'

'Oh, I don't know, but I did.' And again, after a pause, she said,--
'Oh, I am so glad to be here! It is so pleasant riding here in the open
free, fresh air, crushing out such a good smell from the dewy grass.
Papa! are you there? I can't see you.'

He rode close up alongside of her: he was not sure but what she might
be afraid of riding in the dark shadows, so he laid his hand upon hers.

'Oh! I am so glad to feel you,' squeezing his hand hard. 'Papa, I
should like to get a chain like Ponto's,' just as long as your longest
round, and then I could fasten us two to each end of it, and when I
wanted you I could pull, and if you did not want to come, you could
pull back again; but I should know you knew I wanted you, and we could
never lose each other.'

'I'm rather lost in that plan of yours; the details, as you state them,
are a little puzzling; but if I make them out rightly, I am to go about
the country, like the donkeys on the common, with a clog fastened to my
hind leg.'

'I don't mind your calling me a clog, if only we were fastened
together.'

'But I do mind your calling me a donkey,' he replied.

'I never did. At least I did not mean to. But it is such a comfort to
know that I may be as rude as I like.'

'Is that what you've learnt from the grand company you've been keeping
to-day? I expected to find you so polite and ceremonious, that I read a
few chapters of _Sir Charles Grandison_, in order to bring myself up to
concert pitch.'

'Oh, I do hope I shall never be a lord or a lady.'

'Well, to comfort you, I'll tell you this. I am sure you'll never be a
lord; and I think the chances are a thousand to one against your ever
being the other, in the sense in which you mean.'

'I should lose myself every time I had to fetch my bonnet, or else get
tired of long passages and great staircases long before I could go out
walking.'

'But you'd have your lady's-maid, you know.'

'Do you know, papa, I think lady's-maids are worse than ladies. I
should not mind being a housekeeper so much.'

'No! the jam-cupboards and dessert would lie very conveniently to one's
hand,' replied her father, meditatively. 'But Mrs. Brown tells me that
the thought of the dinners often keeps her from sleeping; there's that
anxiety to be taken into consideration. Still, in every condition of
life there are heavy cares and responsibilities.'

'Well! I suppose so,' said Molly, gravely. 'I know Betty says I wear
her life out with the green stains I get in my frocks from sitting in
the cherry-tree.'

'And Miss Browning said she had fretted herself into a headache with
thinking how they had left you behind. I am afraid you'll be as bad as
a bill of fare to them to-night. How did it all happen, goosey?'

'Oh, I went by myself to see the gardens; they are so beautiful! and I
lost myself, and sate down to rest under a great tree; and Lady
Cuxhaven and that Mrs. Kirkpatrick came; and Mrs. Kirkpatrick brought
me some lunch, and then put me to sleep on her bed,--and I thought she
would waken me in time, and she did not; and so they'd all gone away;
and when they planned for me to stop till to-morrow, I didn't like
saying how very, very much I wanted to go home,--but I kept thinking
how you would wonder where I was.'

'Then it was rather a dismal day of pleasure, goosey, eh?'

'Not in the morning. I shall never forget the morning in that garden.
But I was never so unhappy in all my life, as I have been all this long
afternoon.'

Mr. Gibson thought it his duty to ride round by the Towers, and pay a
visit of apology and thanks to the family, before they left for London.
He found them all on the wing, and no one was sufficiently at liberty
to listen to his grateful civilities but Mrs. Kirkpatrick, who,
although she was to accompany Lady Cuxhaven, and pay a visit to her
former pupil, made leisure enough to receive Mr. Gibson, on behalf of
the family; and assured him of her faithful remembrance of his great
professional attention to her in former days in the most winning
manner.




CHAPTER III

MOLLY GIBSON'S CHILDHOOD


Sixteen years before this time, all Hollingford had been disturbed to
its foundations by the intelligence that Mr. Hall, the skilful doctor,
who had attended them all their days, was going to take a partner. It
was no use reasoning to them on the subject; so Mr Browning the vicar,
Mr. Sheepshanks (Lord Cumnor's agent), and Mr Hall himself, the
masculine reasoners of the little society, left off the attempt,
feeling that the _Che sara sara_ would prove more silencing to the
murmurs than many arguments. Mr. Hall had told his faithful patients
that, even with the strongest spectacles, his sight was not to be
depended upon; and they might have found out for themselves that his
hearing was very defective, although, on this point, he obstinately
adhered to his own opinion, and was frequently heard to regret the
carelessness of people's communication nowadays, 'like writing on
blotting-paper, all the words running into each other,' he would say.
And more than once Mr. Hall had had attacks of a suspicious nature,--
'rheumatism' he used to call them; but he prescribed for himself as if
they had been gout,--which had prevented his immediate attention to
imperative summonses. But, blind and deaf, and rheumatic as he might
be, he was still Mr. Hall, the doctor who could heal all their
ailments--unless they died meanwhile--and he had no right to speak of
growing old, and taking a partner.

He went very steadily to work all the same; advertising in medical
journals, reading testimonials, sifting character and qualifications;
and just when the elderly maiden ladies of Hollingford thought that
they had convinced their contemporary that he was as young as ever, he
startled them by bringing his new partner, Mr. Gibson, to call upon
them, and began 'slyly,' as these ladies said, to introduce him into
practice. And 'who was this Mr Gibson?' they asked, and echo might
answer the question, if she liked, for no one else did. No one ever in
all his life knew anything more of his antecedents than the Hollingford
people might have found out the first day they saw him: that he was
tall, grave, rather handsome than otherwise; thin enough to be called
'a very genteel figure,' in those days, before muscular Christianity
had come into vogue; speaking with a slight Scotch accent; and, as one
good lady observed, 'so very trite in his conversation,' by which she
meant sarcastic. As to his birth, parentage, and education,--the
favourite conjecture of Hollingford society was, that he was the
illegitimate son of a Scotch duke, by a Frenchwoman; and the grounds
for this conjecture were these:--He spoke with a Scotch accent;
therefore, he must be Scotch. He had a very genteel appearance, an
elegant figure, and was apt--so his ill-wishers said--to give himself
airs. Therefore, his father must have been some person of quality; and,
that granted, nothing was easier than to run this supposition up all
the notes of the scale of the peerage,--baronet, baron, viscount, earl,
marquis, duke. Higher they dared not go, though one old lady,
acquainted with English history, hazarded the remark, that 'she
believed that one or two of the Stuarts--hem--had not always been,--
ahem--quite correct in their--conduct; and she fancied such--ahem--
things ran in families.' But, in popular opinion, Mr. Gibson's father
always remained a duke; nothing more.

Then his mother must have been a Frenchwoman, because his hair was so
black; and he was so sallow; and because he had been in Paris. All this
might be true, or might not; nobody ever knew, or found out anything
more about him than what Mr. Hall told them, namely, that his
professional qualifications were as high as his moral character, and
that both were far above the average, as Mr. Hall had taken pains to
ascertain before introducing him to his patients. The popularity of
this world is as transient as its glory, as Mr. Hall found out before
the first year of his partnership was over. He had plenty of leisure
left to him now to nurse his gout and cherish his eyesight. The younger
doctor had carried the day; nearly every one sent for Mr Gibson now;
even at the great houses--even at the Towers, that greatest of all,
where Mr. Hall had introduced his new partner with fear and trembling,
with untold anxiety as to his behaviour, and the impression he might
make on my lord the Earl, and MY lady the Countess. Mr. Gibson was
received at the end of a twelvemonth with as much welcome respect for
his professional skill as Mr. Hall himself had ever been. Nay--and this
was a little too much for even the kind old doctor's good temper--Mr.
Gibson had even been invited once to dinner at the Towers, to dine with
the great Sir Astley, the head of the profession! To be sure, Mr. Hall
had been asked as well; but he was laid up just then with his gout,
since he had had a partner the rheumatism had been allowed to develop
itself, and he had not been able to go. Poor Mr. Hall never quite got
over this mortification; after it he allowed himself to become dim of
sight and hard of hearing, and kept pretty closely to the house during
the two winters that remained of his life. He sent for an orphan grand-
niece to keep him company in his old age; he, the woman-contemning old
bachelor, became thankful for the cheerful presence of the pretty,
bonny Mary Preston, who was good and sensible, and nothing more. She
formed a close friendship with the daughters of the vicar, Mr.
Browning, and Mr. Gibson found time to become very intimate with all
three. Hollingford speculated much on which young lady would become Mrs
Gibson, and was rather sorry when the talk about possibilities, and the
gossip about probabilities with regard to the handsome young surgeon's
marriage, ended in the most natural manner in the world, by his
marrying his predecessor's niece. The two Miss Brownings showed no
signs of going into a consumption on the occasion, although their looks
and manners were carefully watched. On the contrary, they were rather
boisterously merry at the wedding, and poor Mrs. Gibson it was that
died of consumption, four or five years after her marriage--three years
after the death of her great-uncle, and when her only child, Molly, was
just three years old.

Mr. Gibson did not speak much about the grief at the loss of his wife,
which it is to be supposed that he felt. Indeed, he avoided all
demonstration of sympathy, and got up hastily and left the room when
Miss Phoebe Browning first saw him after his loss, and burst into an
uncontrollable flood of tears, which threatened to end in hysterics.
Miss Browning afterwards said she never could forgive him for his hard-
heartedness on that occasion; but a fortnight afterwards she came to
very high words with old Mrs. Goodenough, for gasping out her doubts
whether Mr. Gibson was a man of deep feeling; judging by the narrowness
of his crape hat-band, which ought to have covered his hat, whereas
there was at least three inches of beaver to be seen. And, in spite of
it all, Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe considered themselves as Mr.
Gibson's most intimate friends, in right of their regard for his dead
wife, and would fain have taken a quasi-motherly interest in his little
girl, had she not been guarded by a watchful dragon in the shape of
Betty, her nurse, who was jealous of any interference between her and
her charge; and especially resentful and disagreeable towards all those
ladies who, by suitable age, rank, or propinquity, she thought capable
of 'casting sheep's eyes at master.'

Several years before the opening of this story, Mr. Gibson's position
seemed settled for life, both socially and professionally. He was a
widower, and likely to remain so; his domestic affections were centred
on little Molly, but even to her, in their most private moments, he did
not give way to much expression of his feelings; his most caressing
appellation for her was 'Goosey,' and he took a pleasure in bewildering
her infant mind with his badinage. He had rather a contempt for
demonstrative people, arising from his medical insight into the
consequences to health of uncontrolled feeling. He deceived himself
into believing that still his reason was lord of all, because he had
never fallen into the habit of expression on any other than purely
intellectual subjects. Molly, however, had her own intuitions to guide
her. Though her papa laughed at her, quizzed her, joked at her, in a
way which the Miss Brownings called 'really cruel' to each other when
they were quite alone, Molly took her little griefs and pleasures, and
poured them into her papa's ears, sooner even than into Betty's, that
kind-hearted termagant. The child grew to understand her father well,
and the two had the most delightful intercourse together--half banter,
half seriousness, but altogether confidential friendship. Mr. Gibson
kept three servants; Betty, a cook, and a girl who was supposed to be
housemaid, but who was under both the elder two, and had a pretty life
of it in consequence. Three servants would not have been required if it
had not been Mr. Gibson's habit, as it had been Mr. Hall's before him,
to take two 'pupils,' as they were called in the genteel language of
Hollingford, 'apprentices,' as they were in fact--being bound by
indentures, and paying a handsome premium' to learn their business.
They lived in the house, and occupied an uncomfortable, ambiguous, or,
as Miss Browning called it with some truth, 'amphibious' position. They
had their meals with Mr. Gibson and Molly, and were felt to be terribly
in the way; Mr. Gibson not being a man who could make conversation, and
hating the duty of talking under restraint. Yet something within him
made him wince, as if his duties were not rightly performed, when, as
the cloth was drawn, the two awkward lads rose up with joyful alacrity,
gave him a nod, which was to be interpreted as a bow, knocked against
each other in their endeavours to get out of the dining-room quickly;
and then might be heard dashing along a passage which led to the
surgery, choking with half-suppressed laughter. Yet the annoyance he
felt at this dull sense of imperfectly fulfilled duties only made his
sarcasms on their inefficiency, or stupidity, or ill manners, more
bitter than before.

Beyond direct professional instruction, he did not know what to do with
the succession of pairs of young men, whose mission seemed to be to
plague their master consciously, and to plague him unconsciously. Once
or twice Mr. Gibson had declined taking a fresh pupil, in the hopes of
shaking himself free from the incubus, but his reputation as a clever
surgeon had spread so rapidly that fees which he had thought
prohibitory, were willingly paid, in order that the young man might
make a start in life, with the prestige of having been a pupil of
Gibson of Hollingford. But as Molly grew to be a little girl instead of
a child, when she was about eight years old, her father perceived the
awkwardness of her having her breakfasts and dinners so often alone
with the pupils, without his uncertain presence. To do away with this
evil, more than for the actual instruction she could give, he engaged a
respectable woman, the daughter of a shopkeeper in the town, who had
left a destitute family, to come every morning before breakfast, and to
stay with Molly till he came home at night; or, if he was detained,
until the child's bedtime.

'Now, Miss Eyre,' said he, summing up his instructions the day before
she entered upon her office, 'remember this: you are to make good tea
for the young men, and see that they have their meals comfortably,
and--you are five-and-thirty, I think you said?--try and make them
talk,--rationally, I am afraid is beyond your or anybody's power; but
make them talk without stammering or giggling. Don't teach Molly too
much: she must sew, and read, and write, and do her sums; but I want
to keep her a child, and if I find more learning desirable for her,
I'll see about giving it to her myself. After all, I am not sure that
reading or writing is necessary. Many a good woman gets married with
only a cross instead of her name; it's rather a diluting of mother-wit,
to my fancy; but, however we must yield to the prejudices of society,
Miss Eyre, and so you may teach the child to read.'

Miss Eyre listened in silence, perplexed but determined to be obedient
to the directions of the doctor, whose kindness she and her family had
good cause to know. She made strong tea; she helped the young men
liberally in Mr. Gibson's absence, as well as in his presence, and she
found the way to unloosen their tongues, whenever their master was
away, by talking to them on trivial subjects in her pleasant homely
way. She taught Molly to read and write, but tried honestly to keep her
back in every other branch of education. It was only by fighting and
struggling hard, that bit by bit Molly persuaded her father to let her
have French and drawing lessons. He was always afraid of her becoming
too much educated, though he need not have been alarmed; the masters
who visited such small country towns as Hollingford forty years ago,
were no such great proficients in their arts. Once a week she joined a
dancing class in the assembly-room at the principal inn in the town:
the 'George;' and, being daunted by her father in every intellectual
attempt, she read every book that came in her way, almost with as much
delight as if it had been forbidden. For his station in life, Mr.
Gibson had an unusually good library; the medical portion of it was
inaccessible to Molly, being kept in the surgery, but every other book
she had either read, or tried to read. Her summer place of study was
that seat in the cherry-tree, where she got the green stains on her
frock, that have already been mentioned as likely to wear Betty's life
out. In spite of this 'hidden worm i' th' bud,' Betty was to all
appearance strong, alert, and flourishing. She was the one crook in
Miss Eyre's lot, who was otherwise so happy in having met with a
suitable well-paid employment just when she needed it most. But Betty,
though agreeing in theory with her master when he told her of the
necessity of having a governess for his little daughter, was vehemently
opposed to any division of her authority and influence over the child
who had been her charge, her plague, and her delight ever since Mrs.
Gibson's death. She took up her position as censor of all Miss Eyre's
sayings and doings from the very first, and did not for a moment
condescend to conceal her disapprobation. In her heart, she could not
help respecting the patience and painstaking of the good lady,--for a
'lady' Miss Eyre was in the best sense of the word, though in
Hollingford she only took rank as a shopkeeper's daughter. Yet Betty
buzzed about her with the teasing pertinacity of a gnat, always ready
to find fault, if not to bite. Miss Eyre's only defence came from the
quarter whence it might least have been expected--from her pupil; on
whose fancied behalf, as an oppressed little personage, Betty always
based her attacks. But very early in the day Molly perceived their
injustice, and soon afterwards she began to respect Miss Eyre for her
silent endurance of what evidently gave her far more pain than Betty
imagined. Mr. Gibson had been a friend in need to her family, so Miss
Eyre restrained her complaints, sooner than annoy him. And she had her
reward. Betty would offer Molly all sorts of small temptations to
neglect Miss Eyre's wishes; Molly steadily resisted, and plodded away
at her task of sewing or her difficult sum. Betty made cumbrous jokes
at Miss Eyre's expense. Molly looked up with the utmost gravity, as if
requesting the explanation of an unintelligible speech; and there is
nothing so quenching to a wag as to be asked to translate his jest into
plain matter-of-fact English, and to show wherein the point lies.
Occasionally Betty lost her temper entirely, and spoke impertinently to
Miss Eyre; but when this had been done in Molly's presence, the girl
flew out into such a violent passion of words in defence of her silent
trembling governess, that even Betty herself was daunted, though she
chose to take the child's anger as a good joke, and tried to persuade
Miss Eyre herself to join in her amusement.

'Bless the child! one would think I was a hungry pussy-cat, and she a
hen-sparrow, with her wings all fluttering, and her little eyes aflame,
and her beak ready to peck me just because I happened to look near her
nest. Nay, child! if thou lik'st to be stifled in a nasty close room,
learning things as is of no earthly good when they is learnt, instead
o' riding on Job Donkin's hay-cart, it's thy look-out, not mine. She's
a little vixen, isn't she?' smiling at Miss Eyre, as she finished her
speech. But the poor governess saw no humour in the affair; the
comparison of Molly to a hen-sparrow was lost upon her. She was
sensitive and conscientious, and knew, from home experience, the evils
of an ungovernable temper. So she began to reprove Molly for giving way
to her passion, and the child thought it hard to be blamed for what she
considered her just anger against Betty. But, after all, these were the
small grievances of a very happy childhood.




CHAPTER IV

MR GIBSON'S NEIGHBOURS


Molly grew up among these quiet people in calm monotony of life,
without any greater event than that which has been recorded,--the being
left behind at the Towers, until she was nearly seventeen. She had
become a visitor at the school, but she had never gone again to the
annual festival at the great house; it was easy to find some excuse for
keeping away, and the recollection of that day was not a pleasant one
on the whole, though she often thought how much she should like to see
the gardens again.

Lady Agnes was married; there was only Lady Harriet remaining at home;
Lord Hollingford, the eldest son, had lost his wife, and was a good
deal more at the Towers since he had become a widower. He was a tall
ungainly man, considered to be as proud as his mother, the countess;
but, in fact, he was only shy, and slow at making commonplace speeches.
He did not know what to say to people whose daily habits and interests
were not the same as his; he would have been very thankful for a
handbook of small-talk, and would have learnt off his sentences with
good-humoured diligence. He often envied the fluency of his garrulous
father, who delighted in talking to everybody, and was perfectly
unconscious of the incoherence of his conversation. But, owing to his
constitutional reserve and shyness, Lord Hollingford was not a popular
man, although his kindness of heart was very great, his simplicity of
character extreme, and his scientific acquirements considerable enough
to entitle him to much reputation in the European republic of learned
men. In this respect Hollingford was proud of him. The inhabitants knew
that the great, grave, clumsy heir to its fealty was highly esteemed
for his wisdom; and that he had made one or two discoveries, though in
what direction they were not quite sure. But it was safe to point him
out to strangers visiting the little town, as 'That's Lord Hollingford
--the famous Lord Hollingford, you know; you must have heard of him, he
is so scientific.' If the strangers knew his name, they also knew his
claims to fame; if they did not, ten to one but they would make as if
they did, and so conceal not only their own ignorance, but that of
their companions, is to the exact nature of the sources of his
reputation.

He was left a widower, with two or three boys. They were at a public
school; so that their companionship could make the house in which he
had passed his married life but little of a home to him, and he
consequently spent much of his time at the Towers; where his mother was
proud of him, and his father very fond, but ever so little afraid of
him. His friends were always welcomed by Lord and Lady Cumnor; the
former, indeed, was in the habit of welcoming everybody everywhere; but
it was a proof of Lady Cumnor's real affection for her distinguished
son, that she allowed him to ask what she called 'all sorts of people'
to the Towers. 'All sorts of people' meant really those who were
distinguished for science and learning, without regard to rank; and, it
must be confessed, without much regard to polished manners likewise.

Mr. Hall, Mr. Gibson's predecessor, had always been received with
friendly condescension by my lady, who had found him established as the
family medical man, when first she came to the Towers on her marriage;
but she never thought of interfering with his custom of taking his
meals, if he needed refreshment, in the housekeeper's room, not _with_
the housekeeper, _bien entendu_. The comfortable, clever, stout, and
red-faced doctor would very much have preferred this, even if he had
had the choice given him (which he never had) of taking his 'snack,' as
he called it, with my lord and my lady, in the grand dining-room. Of
course, if some great surgical gun (like Sir Astley) was brought down
from London to bear on the family's health, it was due to him, as well
as to the local medical attendant, to ask Mr. Hall to dinner, in a
formal and ceremonious manner, on which occasions Mr. Hall buried his
chin in voluminous folds of white muslin, put on his black knee-
breeches, with bunches of ribbon at the sides, his silk stockings and
buckled shoes, and otherwise made himself excessively uncomfortable in
his attire, and went forth in state in a post-chaise from the 'George,'
consoling himself in the private corner of his heart for the discomfort
he was enduring with the idea of how well it would sound the next day
in the ears of the squires whom he was in the habit of attending.
'Yesterday at dinner the earl said,' or 'the countess remarked,' or 'I
was surprised to hear when I was dining at the Towers yesterday.' But
somehow things had changed since Mr. Gibson had become 'the doctor'
_par excellence_ at Hollingford. The Miss Brownings thought that it was
because he had such an elegant figure, and 'such a distinguished
manner;' Mrs. Goodenough, 'because of his aristocratic connections'--
'the son of a Scotch duke, my dear, never mind on which side of the
blanket'--but the fact was certain; although he might frequently ask
Mrs. Brown to give him something to eat in the housekeeper's room--he
had no time for all the fuss and ceremony of luncheon with my lady--he
was always welcome to the grandest circle of visitors in the house. He
might lunch with a duke any day that he chose; given that a duke was
forthcoming at the Towers. His accent was Scotch, not provincial. He
had not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his bones; and leanness goes a
great way to gentility. His complexion was sallow, and his hair black;
in those days, the decade after the conclusion of the great continental
war, to be sallow and black-a-vised was of itself a distinction;' he
was not jovial (as my lord remarked with a sigh, but it was my lady who
endorsed the invitations), sparing of his words, intelligent, and
slightly sarcastic. Therefore he was perfectly presentable.

His Scotch blood (for that he was of Scotch descent there could be no
manner of doubt) gave him just the kind of thistly dignity which made
every one feel that they must treat him with respect; so on that head
he was assured. The grandeur of being an invited guest to dinner at the
Towers from time to time, gave him but little pleasure for many years,
but it was a form to be gone through in the way of his profession,
without any idea of social gratification.

But when Lord Hollingford returned to make the Towers his home, affairs
were altered. Mr. Gibson really heard and learnt things that interested
him seriously, and that gave a fresh flavour to his reading. From time
to time he met the leaders of the scientific world; odd-looking,
simple-hearted men, very much in earnest about their own particular
subjects, and not having much to say on any other. Mr. Gibson found
himself capable of appreciating such persons, and also perceived that
they valued his appreciation, as it was honestly and intelligently
given. Indeed, by-and-by, he began to send contributions of his own to
the more scientific of the medical journals, and thus partly in
receiving, partly in giving out information and accurate thought, a new
zest was added to his life. There was not much intercourse between Lord
Hollingford and himself; the one was too silent and shy, the other too
busy, to seek each other's society with the perseverance required to do
away with the social distinction of rank that prevented their frequent
meetings. But each was thoroughly pleased to come into contact with the
other. Each could rely on the other's respect and sympathy with a
security unknown to many who call themselves friends; and this was a
source of happiness to both; to Mr. Gibson the most so, of course; for
his range of intelligent and cultivated society was the smaller.
Indeed, there was no one equal to himself among the men with whom he
associated, and this he had felt as a depressing influence, although he
had never recognized the cause of his depression. There was Mr Ashton,
the vicar, who had succeeded Mr. Browning, a thoroughly good and kind-
hearted man, but one without an original thought in him; whose habitual
courtesy and indolent mind led him to agree to every opinion, not
palpably heterodox, and to utter platitudes in the most gentlemanly
manner. Mr. Gibson had once or twice amused himself, by leading the
vicar on in his agreeable admissions of arguments 'as perfectly
convincing,' and of statements as 'curious but undoubted,' till he had
planted the poor clergyman in a bog of heretical bewilderment. But then
Mr. Ashton's pain and suffering at suddenly finding out into what a
theological predicament he had been brought, his real self-reproach at
his previous admissions, were so great that Mr. Gibson lost all sense
of fun, and hastened back to the Thirty-nine Articles with all the
good-will in life, as the only means of soothing the vicar's
conscience. On any other subject, except that of orthodoxy, Mr. Gibson
could lead him any lengths; but then his ignorance on most of them
prevented bland acquiescence from arriving at any results which could
startle him. He had some private fortune, and was not married, and
lived the life of an indolent and refined bachelor; but though he
himself was no very active visitor among his poorer parishioners, he
was always willing to relieve their wants in the most liberal, and,
considering his habits, occasionally in the most self-denying manner,
whenever Mr. Gibson, or any one else, made them clearly known to him.
'Use my purse as freely as if it was your own, Gibson,' he was wont to
say. 'I'm such a bad one at going about and making talk to poor folk--I
dare say I don't do enough in that way--but I am most willing to give
you anything for any one you may consider in want.'

'Thank you; I come upon you pretty often, I believe, and make very
little scruple about it; but if you'll allow me to suggest, it is, that
you should not try to make talk when you go into the cottages; but just
talk.'

'I don't see the difference,' said the vicar, a little querulously;
'but I dare say there is a difference, and I have no doubt what you say
is quite true. I should not make talk, but talk; and as both are
equally difficult to me, you must let me purchase the privilege of
silence by this ten-pound note.'

'Thank you. It is not so satisfactory to me; and, I should think, not
to yourself. But probably the Joneses and Greens will prefer it.'

Mr. Ashton would look with plaintive inquiry into Mr. Gibson's face
after some such speech, as if asking if a sarcasm was intended. On the
whole they went on in the most amicable way; only beyond the gregarious
feeling common to most men, they had very little actual pleasure in
each other's society. Perhaps the man of all others to whom Mr. Gibson
took the most kindly--at least, until Lord Hollingford came into the
neighbourhood--was a certain Squire Hamley. He and his ancestors had
been called squire as long back as local tradition extended. But there
was many a greater landowner in the county, for Squire Hamley's estate
was not more than eight hundred acres or so. But his family had been in
possession of it long before the Earls of Cumnor had been heard of;
before the Hely-Harrisons had bought Coldstone Park; no one in
Hollingford knew the time when the Hamleys had not lived at Hamley.
'Ever since the Heptarchy,' said the vicar. 'Nay,' said Miss Browning,
'I have heard that there were Hamleys of Hamley before the Romans.' The
vicar was preparing a polite assent, when Mrs. Goodenough came in with
a still more startling assertion. 'I have always heerd,' said she, with
all the slow authority of an oldest inhabitant, 'that there was Hamleys
of Hamley afore the time of the pagans.' Mr. Ashton could only bow, and
say, 'Possibly, very possibly, madam.' But he said it in so courteous a
manner that Mrs. Goodenough looked round in a gratified manner, as much
as to say, 'The Church confirms my words; who now will dare dispute
them?' At any rate, the Hamleys were a very old family, if not
aborigines. They had not increased their estate for centuries; they had
held their own, if even with an effort, and had not sold a rood of it
for the last hundred years or so. But they were not an adventurous
race. They never traded, or speculated, or tried agricultural
improvements of any kind. They had no capital in any bank; nor what
perhaps would have been more in character, hoards of gold in any
stocking. Their mode of life was simple, and more like that of yeomen
than squires. Indeed Squire Hamley, by continuing the primitive manners
and customs of his forefathers, the squires of the eighteenth century,
did live more as a yeoman, when such a class existed, than as a squire
of this generation. There was a dignity in this quiet conservatism that
gained him an immense amount of respect both from high and low; and he
might have visited at every house in the county had he so chosen. But
he was very indifferent to the charms of society; and perhaps this was
owing to the fact that the squire, Roger Hamley, who at present lived
and reigned at Hamley, had not received so good an education as he
ought to have done. His father, Squire Stephen, had been plucked at
Oxford, and, with stubborn pride, he had refused to go up again. Nay,
more! he had sworn a great oath, as men did in those days, that none of
his children to come should ever know either university by becoming a
member of it. He had only one child, the present squire, and he was
brought up according to his father's word; he was sent to a petty
provincial school, where he saw much that he hated, and then turned
loose upon the estate as its heir. Such a bringing up did not do him
all the harm that might have been anticipated. He was imperfectly
educated, and ignorant on many points; but he was aware of his
deficiency, and regretted it in theory. He was awkward and ungainly in
society, and so kept out of it as much as possible; and he was
obstinate, violent-tempered, and dictatorial in his own immediate
circle. On the other side, he was generous, and true as steel; the very
soul of honour in fact. He had so much natural shrewdness, that his
conversation was always worth listening to, although he was apt to
start by assuming entirely false premisses, which he considered as
incontrovertible as if they had been mathematically proved; but, given
the correctness of his premisses, nobody could bring more natural wit
and sense to bear upon the arguments based upon them.

He had married a delicate fine London lady; it was one of those
perplexing marriages of which one cannot understand the reasons. Yet
they were very happy, though possibly Mrs. Hamley would not have sunk
into the condition of a chronic invalid, if her husband had cared a
little more for her various tastes, or allowed her the companionship of
those who did. After his marriage he was wont to say he had got all
that was worth having out of that crowd of houses they called London.
It was a compliment to his wife which he repeated until the year of her
death; it charmed her at first, it pleased her up to the last time of
her hearing it; but, for all that, she used sometimes to wish that he
would recognize the fact that there might still be something worth
hearing and seeing in the great city. But he never went there again,
and though he did not prohibit her going, yet he showed so little
sympathy with her when she came back full of what she had done on her
visit that she ceased caring to go. Not but what he was kind and
willing in giving his consent, and in furnishing her amply with money.
'There, there, my little woman, take that! Dress yourself up as fine as
any on 'em, and buy what you like, for the credit of Hamley of Hamley;
and go to the park and the play, and show off with the best on 'em. I
shall be glad to see thee back again, I know; but have thy fling while
thou art about it.' Then when she came back it was, 'Well, well, it has
pleased thee, I suppose, so that's all right. But the very talking
about it tires me, I know, and I can't think how you have stood it all.
Come out and see how pretty the flowers are looking in the south
garden. I've made them sow all the seeds you like; and I went over to
Hollingford nursery to buy the cuttings of the plants you admired last
year. A breath of fresh air will clear my brain after listening to all
this talk about the whirl of London, which is like to have turned me
giddy.'

Mrs. Hamley was a great reader, and had considerable literary taste.
She was gentle and sentimental; tender and good. She gave up her visits
to London; she gave up her sociable pleasure in the company of her
fellows in education and position. Her husband, owing to the
deficiencies of his early years, disliked associating with those to
whom he ought to have been an equal; he was too proud to mingle with
his inferiors. He loved his wife all the more dearly for her sacrifices
for him; but, deprived of all her strong interests, she sank into ill-
health; nothing definite; only she never was well. Perhaps if she had
had a daughter it would have been better for her; but her two children
were boys, and their father, anxious to give them the advantages of
which he himself had suffered the deprivation, sent the lads very early
to a preparatory school. They were to go on to Rugby and Cambridge; the
idea of Oxford was hereditarily distasteful in the Hamley family.
Osborne, the eldest--so called after his mother's maiden name--was full
of tastes, and had some talent. His appearance had all the grace and
refinement of his mother's. He was sweet-tempered and affectionate,
almost as demonstrative as a girl. He did well at school, carrying away
many prizes; and was, in a word, the pride and delight of both father
and mother; the confidential friend of the latter, in default of any
other. Roger was two years younger than Osborne; clumsy and heavily
built, like his father; his face was square, and the expression grave,
and rather immobile. He was good, but dull, his schoolmasters said. He
won no prizes, but brought home a favourable report of his conduct.
When he caressed his mother, she used laughingly to allude to the fable
of the lap-dog and the donkey; so thereafter he left off all personal
demonstration of affection. It was a great question as to whether he
was to follow his brother to college after he left Rugby. Mrs. Hamley
thought it would be rather a throwing away of money, as he was so
little likely to distinguish himself in intellectual pursuits; anything
practical--such as a civil engineer--would be more the line of life for
him. She thought that it would be too mortifying for him to go to the
same college and university as his brother, who was sure to distinguish
himself--and, to be repeatedly plucked, to come away wooden-spoon at
last. But his father persevered doggedly, as was his wont, in his
intention of giving both his sons the same education; they should both
have the advantages of which he had been deprived. If Roger did not do
well at Cambridge it would be his own fault. If his father did not send
him thither, some day or other he might be regretting the omission, as
Squire Roger had done himself for many a year. So Roger followed his
brother Osborne to Trinity,' and Mrs. Hamley was again left alone,
after the year of indecision as to Roger's destination, which had been
brought on by her urgency. She had not been able for many years to walk
beyond her garden; the greater part of her life was spent on a sofa,
wheeled to the window in summer, to the fireside in winter. The room
which she inhabited was large and pleasant; four tall windows looked
out upon a lawn dotted over with flower-beds, and melting away into a
small wood, in the centre of which there was a pond, filled with water-
lilies. About this unseen pond in the deep shade Mrs. Hamley had
written many a pretty four-versed poem since she lay on her sofa,
alternately reading and composing poetry. She had a small table by her
side on which there were the newest works of poetry and fiction; a
pencil and blotting-book, with loose sheets of blank paper; a vase of
flowers always of her husband's gathering; winter and summer, she had a
sweet fresh nosegay every day. Her maid brought her a draught of
medicine every three hours, with a glass of clear water and a biscuit;
her husband came to her as often as his love for the open air and his
labours out-of-doors permitted; but the event of her day, when her boys
were absent, was Mr. Gibson's frequent professional visits.

He knew there was real secret harm going on all this time that people
spoke of her as a merely fanciful invalid; and that one or two accused
him of humouring her fancies. But he only smiled at such accusations.
He felt that his visits were a real pleasure and lightening of her
growing and indescribable discomfort; he knew that Squire Hamley would
have been only too glad if he had come every day; and he was conscious
that by careful watching of her symptoms he might mitigate her bodily
pain. Besides all these reasons, he took great pleasure in the squire's
society. Mr. Gibson enjoyed the other's unreasonableness; his
quaintness; his strong conservatism in religion, politics, and morals.
Mrs. Hamley tried sometimes to apologize for, or to soften away,
opinions which she fancied were offensive to the doctor, or
contradictions which she thought too abrupt; but at such times her
husband would lay his great hand almost caressingly on Mr. Gibson's
shoulder, and soothe his wife's anxiety, by saying, 'Let us alone,
little woman. We understand each other, don't we, doctor? Why, bless
your life, he gives me better than he gets many a time; only, you see,
he sugars it over, and says a sharp thing, and pretends it's all
civility and humility; but I can tell when he's giving me a pill.'

One of Mrs. Hamley's often-expressed wishes had been, that Molly might
come and pay her a visit. Mr. Gibson always refused this request of
hers, though he could hardly have given his reasons for these refusals.
He did not want to lose the companionship of his child, in fact; but he
put it to himself in quite a different way. He thought her lessons and
her regular course of employment would be interrupted. The life in Mrs.
Hamley's heated and scented room would not be good for the girl;
Osborne and Roger Hamley would be at home, and he did not wish Molly to
be thrown too exclusively upon them for young society; or they would
not be at home, and it would be rather dull and depressing for his girl
to be all the day long with a nervous invalid.

But at length the day came when Mr. Gibson rode over, and volunteered a
visit from Molly; an offer which Mrs. Hamley received with the 'open
arms of her heart,' as she expressed it; and of which the duration was
unspecified. And the cause for this change in Mr Gibson's wishes was as
follows:--It has been mentioned that he took pupils, rather against his
inclination, it is true; but there they were, a Mr. Wynne and Mr. Coxe,
'the young gentlemen,' as they were called in the household; 'Mr.
Gibson's young gentlemen,' as they were termed in the town. Mr. Wynne
was the elder, the more experienced one, who could occasionally take
his master's place, and who gained experience by visiting the poor, and
the 'chronic cases.' Mr. Gibson used to talk over his practice with Mr.
Wynne, and try and elicit his opinions in the vain hope that, some day
or another, Mr. Wynne might start an original thought. The young man
was cautious and slow; he would never do any harm by his rashness, but
at the same time he would always be a little behind his day. Still Mr.
Gibson remembered that he had had far worse 'young gentlemen' to deal
with; and was content with, if not thankful for, such an elder pupil as
Mr. Wynne. Mr. Coxe was a boy of nineteen or so, with brilliant red
hair, and a tolerably red face, of both of which he was very conscious
and much ashamed. He was the son of an Indian officer, an old
acquaintance of Mr. Gibson's. Major Coxe was at some unpronounceable
station in the Punjaub, at the present time; but the year before he had
been in England, and had repeatedly expressed his great satisfaction at
having placed his only child as a pupil to his old friend, and had in
fact almost charged Mr. Gibson with the guardianship as well as the
instruction of his boy, giving him many injunctions which he thought
were special in this case; but which Mr. Gibson with a touch of
annoyance assured the major were always attended to in every case, with
every pupil. But when the poor major ventured to beg that his boy might
be considered as one of the family, and that he might spend his
evenings in the drawing-room instead of the surgery, Mr Gibson turned
upon him with a direct refusal.

'He must live like the others. I can't have the pestle and mortar
carried into the drawing-room, and the place smelling of aloes.'

'Must my boy make pills himself, then?' asked the major, ruefully.

'To be sure. The youngest apprentice always does. It's not hard work.
He'll have the comfort of thinking he won't have to swallow them
himself. And he'll have the run of the pomfret cakes, and the conserve
of hips, and on Sundays he shall have a taste of tamarinds to reward
him for his weekly labour at pill-making.'

Major Coxe was not quite sure whether Mr. Gibson was not laughing at
him in his sleeve; but things were so far arranged, and the real
advantages were so great that he thought it was best to take no notice,
but even to submit to the indignity of pill-making. He was consoled for
all these rubs by Mr. Gibson's manner at last when the supreme moment
of final parting arrived. The doctor did not say much; but there was
something of real sympathy in his manner that spoke straight to the
father's heart, and an implied 'you have trusted me with your boy, and
I have accepted the trust in full,' in each of the last few words.

Mr. Gibson knew his business and human nature too well to distinguish
young Coxe by any overt marks of favouritism; but he could not help
showing the lad occasionally that he regarded him with especial
interest as the son of a friend. Besides this claim upon his regard,
there was something about the young man himself that pleased Mr Gibson.
He was rash and impulsive, apt to speak, hitting the nail on the head
sometimes with unconscious cleverness, at other times making gross and
startling blunders. Mr. Gibson used to tell him that his motto would
always be 'kill or cure,' and to this Mr. Coxe once made answer that he
thought it was the best motto a doctor could have; for if he could not
cure the patient, it was surely best to get him out of his misery
quietly, and at once. Mr. Wynne looked up in surprise, and observed
that he should be afraid that such putting out of misery might be
looked upon as homicide by some people. Mr Gibson said in a dry tone,
that for his part he should not mind the imputation of homicide, but
that it would not do to make away with profitable patients in so speedy
a manner; and that he thought that as long as they were willing and
able to pay two-and-sixpence for the doctor's visit, it was his duty to
keep them alive; of course, when they became paupers the case was
different. Mr. Wynne pondered over this speech; Mr. Coxe only laughed.
At last Mr. Wynne said,--

'But you go every morning, sir, before breakfast to see old Nancy
Grant, and you've ordered her this medicine, sir, which is about the
most costly in Corbyn's bill?'

'Have you not found out how difficult it is for men to live up to their
precepts? You've a great deal to learn yet, Mr. Wynne!' said Mr Gibson,
leaving the surgery as he spoke.

'I never can make the governor out,' said Mr. Wynne, in a tone of utter
despair. 'What are you laughing at, Coxey?'

'Oh! I'm thinking how blest you are in having parents who have
instilled moral principles into your youthful bosom. You'd go and be
poisoning all the paupers off, if you hadn't been told that murder was
a crime by your mother; you'd be thinking you were doing as you were
bid, and quote old Gibson's words when you came to be tried. "Please,
my lord judge, they were not able to pay for my visits, and so I
followed the rules of the profession as taught me by Mr. Gibson, the
great surgeon at Hollingford, and poisoned the paupers."'

'I can't bear that scoffing way of his.'

'And I like it. If it wasn't for the governor's fun, and the tamarinds,
and something else that I know of, I would run off to India. I hate
stifling rooms, and sick people, and the smell of drugs, and the stink
of pills on my hands;--faugh!'




CHAPTER V

CALF-LOVE


One day, for some reason or other, Mr. Gibson came home unexpectedly.
He was crossing the hall, having come in by the garden-door--the garden
communicated with the stable-yard, where he had left his horse--when
the kitchen door opened, and the girl who was underling in the
establishment, came quickly into the hall with a note in her hand, and
made as if she was taking it upstairs; but on seeing her master she
gave a little start, and turned back as if to hide herself in the
kitchen. If she had not made this movement, so conscious of guilt, Mr.
Gibson, who was anything but suspicious, would never have taken any
notice of her. As it was, he stepped quickly forwards, opened the
kitchen door, and called out, 'Bethia' so sharply that she could not
delay coming forwards.

'Give me that note,' he said. She hesitated a little.

'It's for Miss Molly,' she stammered out.

'Give it to me!' he repeated more quietly than before. She looked as if
she would cry; but still she kept the note tight held behind her back.

'He said as I was to give it into her own hands; and I promised as I
would, faithful.'

'Cook, go and find Miss Molly. Tell her to come here at once.'

He fixed Bethia with his eyes. It was of no use trying to escape: she
might have thrown it into the fire, but she had not presence of mind
enough. She stood immovable, only her eyes looked any way rather than
encounter her master's steady gaze. 'Molly, my dear!'

'Papa! I did not know you were at home,' said innocent, wondering
Molly.

'Bethia, keep your word. Here is Miss Molly; give her the note.'

'Indeed, Miss, I couldn't help it!'

Molly took the note, but before she could open it, her father said,--
'That's all, my dear; you need not read it. Give it to me. Tell those
who sent you, Bethia, that all letters for Miss Molly must pass through
my hands. Now be off with you, goosey, and go back to where you came
from.'

'Papa, I shall make you tell me who my correspondent is.'

'We'll see about that, by-and-by.'

She went a little reluctantly, with ungratified curiosity, upstairs to
Miss Eyre, who was still her daily companion, if not her governess. He
turned into the empty dining-room, shut the door, broke the seal of the
note, and began to read it. It was a flaming love-letter from Mr. Coxe;
who professed himself unable to go on seeing her day after day without
speaking to her of the passion she had inspired--an 'eternal passion,'
he called it; on reading which Mr. Gibson laughed a little. Would she
not look kindly at him? would she not think of him whose only thought
was of her? and so on, with a very proper admixture of violent
compliments to her beauty. She was fair, not pale; her eyes were
loadstars, her dimples marks of Cupid's finger, &c.

Mr. Gibson finished reading it; and began to think about it in his own
mind. 'Who would have thought the lad had been so poetical; but, to be
sure, there's a "Shakespeare" in the surgery library: I'll take it away
and put "Johnson's Dictionary" instead. One comfort is the conviction
of her perfect innocence--ignorance, I should rather say--for it is
easy to see it's the first "confession of his love," as he calls it.
But it's an awful worry--to begin with lovers so early. Why, she's only
just seventeen,--not seventeen, indeed, till July; not for six weeks
yet. Sixteen and three-quarters! Why, she's quite a baby. To be sure--
poor Jeanie was not so old, and how I did love her! (Mrs. Gibson's name
was Mary, so he must have been referring to someone else.) Then his
thoughts wandered back to other days, though he still held the open
note in his hand. By-and-by his eyes fell upon it again, and his mind
came back to bear upon the present time. 'I'll not be hard upon him.
I'll give him a hint; he is quite sharp enough to take it. Poor laddie!
if I send him away, which would be the wisest course, I do believe,
he's got no home to go to.'

After a little more consideration in the same strain, Mr. Gibson went
and sat down at the writing-table and wrote the following formula:--

   _Master Coxe_

('That "master" will touch him to the quick,' said Mr. Gibson to
himself as he wrote the word.)

   Rx    Verecundiae              ounce i
         Fidelitatis Domesticae   ounce i
         Reticentiae                 gr iij.

   M. Capiat hanc dosim ter die in aqua pura.

   R. GIBSON, _Ch._

Mr. Gibson smiled a little sadly as he re-read his words. 'Poor
Jeanie,' he said aloud. And then he chose out an envelope, enclosed the
fervid love-letter, and the above prescription; sealed it with his own
sharply-cut seal-ring, R. G., in Old-English letters, and then paused
over the address.

'He'll not like _Master_ Coxe outside; no need to put him to
unnecessary shame.' So the direction on the envelope was--
_Edward Coxe, Esq._

Then Mr. Gibson applied himself to the professional business which had
brought him home so opportunely and unexpectedly, and afterwards he
went back through the garden to the stables; and just as he had mounted
his horse, he said to the stable-man,--'Oh! by the way, here's a letter
for Mr. Coxe. Don't send it through the women; take it round yourself
to the surgery-door, and do it at once.'

The slight smile upon his face, as he rode out of the gates, died away
as soon as he found himself in the solitude of the lanes. He slackened
his speed, and began to think. It was very awkward, he considered, to
have a motherless girl growing up into womanhood in the same house with
two young men, even if she only met them at meal-times; and all the
intercourse they had with each other was merely the utterance of such
words as, 'May I help you to potatoes?' or, as Mr. Wynne would
persevere in saying, 'May I assist you to potatoes?'--a form of speech
which grated daily more and more upon Mr. Gibson's cars. Yet Mr. Coxe,
the offender in this affair which had just occurred, had to remain for
three years more as a pupil in Mr Gibson's family. He should be the
very last of the race. Still there were three years to be got over; and
if this stupid passionate calf-love of his lasted, what was to be done?
Sooner or later Molly would become aware of it. The contingencies of
the affair were so excessively disagreeable to contemplate, that Mr.
Gibson determined to dismiss the subject from his mind by a good strong
effort. He put his horse to a gallop, and found that the violent
shaking over the lanes--paved as they were with round stones, which had
been dislocated by the wear and tear of a hundred years--was the very
best thing for the spirits, if not for the bones. He made a long round
that afternoon, and came back to his home imagining that the worst was
over, and that Mr. Coxe would have taken the hint conveyed in the
prescription. All that would be needed was to find a safe place for the
unfortunate Bethia, who had displayed such a daring aptitude for
intrigue. But Mr. Gibson reckoned without his host. It was the habit of
the young men to come in to tea with the family in the dining-room, to
swallow two cups, munch their bread or toast, and then disappear. This
night Mr. Gibson watched their countenances furtively from under his
long eye-lashes, while he tried against his wont to keep up a _degage_
manner, and a brisk conversation on general subjects. He saw that Mr.
Wynne was on the point of breaking out into laughter, and that red-
haired, red-faced Mr. Coxe was redder and fiercer than ever, while his
whole aspect and ways betrayed indignation and anger.

'He will have it, will he?' thought Mr. Gibson to himself; and he
girded up his loins for the battle. He did not follow Molly and Miss
Eyre into the drawing-room as he usually did. He remained where he was,
pretending to read the newspaper, while Bethia, her face swelled up
with crying, and with an aggrieved and offended aspect, removed the
tea-things. Not five minutes after the room was cleared, came the
expected tap at the door. 'May I speak to you, sir?' said the invisible
Mr. Coxe, from outside.

'To be sure. Come in, Mr. Coxe. I was rather wanting to talk to you
about that bill of Corbyn's. Pray sit down.'

'It is about nothing of that kind, sir, that I wanted--that I wished--
No, thank you--I would rather not sit down.' He, accordingly, stood in
offended dignity. 'It is about that letter, sir--that letter with the
insulting prescription, sir.'

'Insulting prescription! I am surprised at such a word being applied to
any prescription of mine--though, to be sure, patients are sometimes
offended at being told the nature of their illnesses; and, I dare say,
they may take offence at the medicines which their cases require.'

'I did not ask you to prescribe for me.'

'Oh, ho! Then you were the Master Coxe who sent the note through
Bethia! Let me tell you it has cost her her place, and was a very silly
letter into the bargain.'

'It was not the conduct of a gentleman, sir, to intercept it, and to
open it, and to read words never addressed to you, sir.'

'No!' said Mr. Gibson, with a slight twinkle in his eye and a curl on
his lips, not unnoticed by the indignant Mr. Coxe. 'I believe I was
once considered tolerably good-looking, and I dare say I was as great a
coxcomb as any one at twenty; but I don't think that even then I should
quite have believed that all those pretty compliments were addressed to
myself.'

'It was not the conductor a gentleman, sir,' repeated Mr. Coxe,
stammering over his words--he was going on to say something more, when
Mr. Gibson broke in.

'And let me tell you, young man,' replied Mr. Gibson, with a sudden
sternness in his voice, 'that what you have done is only excusable in
consideration of your youth and extreme ignorance of what are
considered the laws of domestic honour. I receive you into my house as
a member of my family--you induce one of my servants--corrupting her
with a bribe, I have no doubt--'

'Indeed, sir! I never gave her a penny.'

'Then you ought to have done. You should always pay those who do your
dirty work.'

'Just now, sir, you called it corrupting with a bribe,' muttered Mr
Coxe.

Mr. Gibson took no notice of this speech, but went on,--'Inducing one
of my servants to risk her place, without offering her the slightest
equivalent, by begging her to convey a letter clandestinely to my
daughter--a mere child.'

'Miss Gibson, sir, is nearly seventeen! I heard you say so only the
other day,' said Mr. Coxe, aged twenty. Again Mr. Gibson ignored the
remark.

'A letter which you were unwilling to have seen by her father, who had
tacitly trusted to your honour, by receiving you as an inmate of his
house. Your father's son--I know Major Coxe well--ought to have come to
me, and have said out openly, "Mr. Gibson, I love--or I fancy that I
love--your daughter; I do not think it right to conceal this from you,
although unable to earn a penny; and with no prospect of an unassisted
livelihood, even for myself, for several years, I shall not say a word
about my feelings--or fancied feelings--to the very young lady
herself." That is what your father's son ought to have said; if,
indeed, a couple of grains of reticent silence would not have been
better still.'

'And if I had said it, sir--perhaps I ought to have said it,' said poor
Mr. Coxe, in a hurry of anxiety, 'what would have been your answer?
Would you have sanctioned my passion, sir?'

'I would have said, most probably--I will not be certain of my exact
words in a suppositious case--that you were a young fool, but not a
dishonourable young fool, and I should have told you not to let your
thoughts run upon a calf-love until you had magnified it into a
passion. And I dare say, to make up for the mortification I should have
given you, I should have prescribed your joining the Hollingford
Cricket Club, and set you at liberty as often as I could on the
Saturday afternoons. As it is, I must write to your father's agent in
London, and ask him to remove you out of my household, repaying the
premium, of course, which will enable you to start afresh in some other
doctor's surgery.'

'It will so grieve my father,' said Mr. Coxe, startled into dismay, if
not repentance.

'I see no other course open. It will give Major Coxe some trouble (I
shall take care that he is at no extra expense), but what I think will
grieve him the most is the betrayal of confidence; for I trusted you,
Edward, like a son of my own!' There was something in Mr. Gibson's
voice when he spoke seriously, especially when he referred to any
feeling of his own--he who so rarely betrayed what was passing in his
heart--that was irresistible to most people: the change from joking and
sarcasm to tender gravity.

Mr. Coxe hung his head a little, and meditated.

'I do love Miss Gibson,' said he at length. 'Who could help it?'

'Mr. Wynne, I hope!' said Mr. Gibson.

'His heart is pre-engaged,' replied Mr. Coxe. 'Mine was free as air
till I saw her.'

'Would it tend to cure your--well! passion, we'll say--if she wore blue
spectacles at meal-times? I observe you dwell much on the beauty of her
eyes.'

'You are ridiculing my feelings, Mr. Gibson. Do you forget that you
yourself were young once?'

'Poor Jeanie' rose before Mr. Gibson's eyes; and he felt a little
rebuked.

'Come, Mr. Coxe, let us see if we can't make a bargain,' said he, after
a minute or so of silence. 'You have done a really wrong thing, and I
hope you are convinced of it in your heart, or that you will be when
the heat of this discussion is over, and you come to think a little
about it. But I won't lose all respect for your father's son. If you
will give me your word that, as long as you remain a member of my
family--pupil, apprentice, what you will--you won't again try to
disclose your passion--you see, I am careful to take your view of what
I should call a mere fancy--by word or writing, looks or acts, in any
manner whatever, to my daughter, or to talk about your feelings to any
one else, you shall remain here. If you cannot give me your word, I
must follow out the course I named, and write to your father's agent.'

Mr. Coxe stood irresolute.

'Mr. Wynne knows all I feel for Miss Gibson, sir. He and I have no
secrets from each other.'

'Well, I suppose he must represent the reeds. You know the story of
King Midas's barber, who found out that his royal master had the ears
of an ass beneath his hyacinthine curls. So the barber, in default of a
Mr. Wynne, went to the reeds that grew on the shores of a neighbouring
lake, and whispered to them, "King Midas has the ears of an ass." But
he repeated it so often that the reeds learnt the words, and kept on
saying them all the day long, till at the last the secret was no secret
at all. If you keep on telling your tale to Mr. Wynne, are you sure he
won't repeat it in his turn?'

'If I pledge my word as a gentleman, sir, I pledge it for Mr. Wynne as
well.'

'I suppose I must run the risk. But remember how soon a young girl's
name may be breathed upon, and sullied. Molly has no mother, and for
that very reason she ought to move among you all, as unharmed as Una
herself.'

'Mr. Gibson, if you wish it, I'll swear it on the Bible,' cried the
excitable young man.

'Nonsense. As if your word, if it's worth anything, was not enough!
We'll shake hands upon it, if you like.'

Mr. Coxe came forward eagerly, and almost squeezed Mr. Gibson's ring
into his finger.

As he was leaving the room, he said, a little uneasily, 'May I give
Bethia a crown-piece?'

'No, indeed! Leave Bethia to me. I hope you won't say another word to
her while she is here. I shall see that she gets a respectable place
when she goes away.'

Then Mr. Gibson rang for his horse, and went out on the last visits of
the day. He used to reckon that he rode the world around in the course
of the year. There were not many surgeons in the county who had so wide
a range of practice as he; he went to lonely cottages on the borders of
great commons; to farm-houses at the end of narrow country lanes that
led to nowhere else, and were overshadowed by the elms and beeches
overhead. He attended all the gentry within a circle of fifteen miles
round Hollingford; and was the appointed doctor to the still greater
families who went up to London every February--as the fashion then was--
and returned to their acres in the early weeks of July. He was, of
necessity, a great deal from home, and on this soft and pleasant summer
evening he felt the absence as a great evil. He was startled into
discovering that his little one was growing fast into a woman, and
already the passive object of some of the strong interests that affect
a woman's life; and he--her mother as well as her father--so much away
that he could not guard her as he would have wished. The end of his
cogitations was that ride to Hamley the next morning, when he proposed
to allow his daughter to accept Mrs. Hamley's last invitation--an
invitation that had been declined at the time.

'You may quote against me the proverb, "He that will not when he may,
when he will he shall have nay." And I shall have no reason to
complain,' he had said.

But Mrs. Hamley was only too much charmed with the prospect of having a
young girl for a visitor; one whom it would not be a trouble to
entertain; who might be sent out to ramble in the gardens, or told to
read when the invalid was too much fatigued for conversation; and yet
one whose youth and freshness would bring a charm, like a waft of sweet
summer air, into her lonely shut-up life. Nothing could be pleasanter,
and so Molly's visit to Hamley was easily settled.

'I only wish Osborne and Roger had been at home,' said Mrs. Hamley, in
her slow soft voice. 'She may find it dull being with old people, like
the squire and me, from morning till night. When can she come? the
darling--I am beginning to love her already!'

Mr. Gibson was very glad in his heart that the young men of the house
were out of the way; he did not want his little Molly to be passing
from Scylla to Charybdis; and, as he afterwards scoffed at himself for
thinking, he had got an idea that all young men were wolves in chase of
his one ewe-lamb.

'She knows nothing of the pleasure in store for her,' he replied; 'and
I am sure I don't know what feminine preparations she may think
necessary, or how long they may take. You'll remember she is a little
ignoramus, and has had no . . . no training in etiquette; our ways at
home are rather rough for a girl, I'm afraid. But I know I could not
send her into a kinder atmosphere than this.'

When the squire heard from his wife of Mr. Gibson's proposal, he was as
much pleased as she at the prospect of their youthful visitor; for he
was a man of a hearty hospitality, when his pride did not interfere
with its gratification; and he was delighted to think of his sick
wife's having such an agreeable companion in her hours of loneliness.
After a while he said,--'It's as well the lads are at Cambridge; we
might have been having a love-affair if they had been at home.'

'Well--and if we had?' asked his more romantic wife.

'It would not have done,' said the squire, decidedly. 'Osborne will
have had a first-rate education--as good as any man in the county--
he'll have this property, and he's a Hamley of Hamley; not a family in
the shire is as old as we are, or settled on their ground so well.
Osborne may marry where he likes. If Lord Hollingford had a daughter,
Osborne would have been as good a match as she could have required. It
would never do for him to fall in love with Gibson's daughter--I should
not allow it. So it's as well he's out of the way.'

'Well! perhaps Osborne had better look higher.'

'"Perhaps!" I say he must.' The squire brought his hand down with a
thump on the table, near him, which made his wife's heart beat hard for
some minutes. 'And as for Roger,' he continued, unconscious of the
flutter he had put her into, 'he'll have to make his own way, and earn
his own bread; and, I'm afraid, he's not getting on very brilliantly at
Cambridge. He must not think of falling in love for these ten years.'

'Unless he marries a fortune,' said Mrs. Hamley, more by way of
concealing her palpitation than anything else; for she was unworldly
and romantic to a fault.

'No son of mine shall ever marry a wife who is richer than himself,
with my good will,' said the squire again, with emphasis, but without a
thump. 'I don't say but what if Roger is gaining five hundred a year by
the time he's thirty, he shall not choose a wife with ten thousand
pounds down; but I do say, if a boy of mine, with only two hundred a
year--which is all Roger will have from us, and that not for a long
time--goes and marries a woman with fifty thousand to her portion, I
will disown him--it would be just disgusting.'

'Not if they loved each other, and their whole happiness depended upon
their marrying each other?' put in Mrs. Hamley, mildly.

'Pooh! away with love! Nay, my dear, we loved each other so dearly we
should never have been happy with any one else; but that's a different
thing. People are not like what they were when we were young. All the
love now-a-days is just silly fancy, and sentimental romance, as far as
I can see.'

Mr. Gibson thought that he had settled everything about Molly's going
to Hamley before he spoke to her about it, which he did not do, until
the morning of the day on which Mrs. Hamley expected her. Then he
said,--'By the way, Molly! you are to go to Hamley this afternoon; Mrs.
Hamley wants you to go to her for a week or two, and it suits me
capitally that you should accept her invitation just now.'

'Go to Hamley! This afternoon! Papa, you've got some odd reasons at the
back of your head--some mystery, or something. Please, tell me what it
is. Go to Hamley for a week or two! Why, I never was from home before
this without you in all my life.'

'Perhaps not. I don't think you ever walked before you put your feet to
the ground. Everything must have a beginning.'

'It has something to do with that letter that was directed to me, but
that you took out of my hands before I could even see the writing of
the direction.' She fixed her grey eyes on her father's face, as if she
meant to pluck out his secret.

He only smiled and said,--'You're a witch, goosey!'

'Then it had! But if it was a note from Mrs. Hamley, why might I not
see it? I have been wondering if you had some plan in your head ever
since that day--Thursday, was it not? You've gone about in a kind of
thoughtful perplexed way, just like a conspirator. Tell me, papa'--
coming up to him, and putting on a beseeching manner--'why might not I
see that note? and why am I to go to Hamley all on a sudden?'

'Don't you like to go? Would you rather not?' If she had said that she
did not want to go he would have been rather pleased than otherwise,
although it would have put him into a great perplexity; but he was
beginning to dread the parting from her even for so short a time.
However, she replied directly,--

'I don't know--I dare say I shall like it when I have thought a little
more about it. Just now I am so startled by the suddenness of the
affair, I have not considered whether I shall like it or not. I shan't
like going away from you, I know. Why am I to go, papa?'

'There are three old ladies sitting somewhere, and thinking about you
just at this very minute; one has a distaff in her hands, and is
spinning a thread; she has come to a knot in it, and is puzzled what to
do with it. Her sister has a great pair of scissors in her hands, and
wants--as she always does, when any difficulty arises in the smoothness
of the thread--to cut it off short; but the third, who has the most
head of the three, plans how to undo the knot; and she it is who has
decided that you are to go to Hamley. The others are quite convinced by
her arguments; so, as the Fates have decreed that this visit is to be
paid, there is nothing left for you and me but to submit.'

'That is all nonsense, papa, and you are only making me more curious to
find out this hidden reason.'

Mr. Gibson changed his tone, and spoke gravely now. 'There is a reason,
Molly, and one which I do not wish to give. When I tell you this much,
I expect you to be an honourable girl, and to try and not even
conjecture what the reason may be,--much less endeavour to put little
discoveries together till very likely you may find out what I want to
conceal.'

'Papa, I won't even think about your reason again. But then I shall
have to plague you with another question. I have had no new gowns this
year, and I have outgrown all my last summer frocks. I have only three
that I can wear at all. Betty was saying only yesterday that I ought to
have some more.'

'That will do that you have got on, won't it? It is a very pretty
colour.'

'Yes; but, papa,' (holding it out as if she was, going to dance) 'it's
made of woollen, and so hot and heavy; and every day it will be getting
warmer.'

'I wish girls could dress like boys,' said Mr. Gibson, with a little
impatience. 'How is a man to know when his daughter wants clothes? and
how is he to rig her out when he finds it out, just when she needs them
most and has not got them?'

'Ah, that's the question!' said Molly, in some despair.

'Can't you go to Miss Rose's? Does not she keep ready-made frocks for
girls of your age?'

'Miss Rose! I never had anything from her in my life,' replied Molly,
in some surprise; for Miss Rose was the great dressmaker and milliner
of the little town, and hitherto Betty had made the girl's frocks.

'Well, but it seems people consider you as a young woman now, and so I
suppose you must run up milliners' bills like the rest of your kind.
Not that you are to get anything anywhere that you can't pay for down
in ready money. Here's a ten-pound note; go to Miss Rose's, or Miss
anybody's, and get what you want at once. The Hamley carriage is to
come for you at two, and anything that is not quite ready, can easily
be sent by their cart on Saturday, when some of their people always
come to market. Nay, don't thank me! I don't want to have the money
spent, and I don't want you to go and leave me: I shall miss you, I
know; it's only hard necessity that drives me to send you a-visiting,
and to throw away ten pounds on your clothes. There, go away; you're a
plague, and I mean to leave off loving you as fast as I can.'

'Papa!' holding up her finger as in warning, 'you are getting
mysterious again; and though my honourableness is very strong, I won't
promise that it shall not yield to my curiosity if you go on hinting at
untold secrets.'

'Go away and spend your ten pounds. What did I give it you for but to
keep you quiet?'

Miss Rose's ready-made resources and Molly's taste combined, did not
arrive at a very great success. She bought a lilac print, because it
would wash, and would be cool and pleasant for the mornings; and this
Betty could make at home before Saturday. And for high-days and
holidays--by which was understood afternoons and Sundays--Miss Rose
persuaded her to order a gay-coloured, flimsy plaid silk, which she
assured her was quite the latest fashion in London, and which Molly
thought would please her father's Scotch blood. But when he saw the
scrap which she had brought home as a pattern, he cried out that the
plaid belonged to no clan in existence, and that Molly ought to have
known this by instinct. It was too late to change it, however, for Miss
Rose had promised to cut the dress out as soon as Molly had left her
shop.

Mr. Gibson had hung about the town all the morning instead of going
away on his usual distant rides. He passed his daughter once or twice
in the street, but he did not cross over the way when he was on the
opposite side--only gave her a look or a nod, and went on his way,
scolding himself for his weakness in feeling so much pain at the
thought of her absence for a fortnight or so.

'And, after all,' thought he, 'I am only where I was when she comes
back; at least, if that foolish fellow goes on with his imaginary
fancy. She'll have to come back some time, and if he chooses to imagine
himself constant, there's still the devil to pay.' Presently he began
to hum the air out of the 'Beggar's Opera'--

    'I wonder any man alive
     Should ever rear a daughter.'




CHAPTER VI

A VISIT TO THE HAMLEYS


Of course the news of Miss Gibson's approaching departure had spread
through the household before the one o'clock dinner-time came; and Mr.
Coxe's dismal countenance was a source of much inward irritation to Mr.
Gibson, who kept giving the youth sharp glances of savage reproof for
his melancholy face, and the want of appetite; which he trotted out,
with a good deal of sad ostentation; all of which was lost upon Molly,
who was too full of her own personal concerns to have any thought or
observation to spare from them, excepting once or twice when she
thought of the many days that must pass over before she should again
sit down to dinner with her father.

When she named this to him after the meal was over, and they were
sitting together in the drawing-room, waiting for the sound of the
wheels of the Hamley carriage, he laughed, and said,--

'I'm coming over to-morrow to see Mrs. Hamley; and I dare say I shall
dine at their lunch; so you won't have to wait long before you've the
treat of seeing the wild beast feed.'

Then they heard the approaching carriage.

'Oh, papa,' said Molly, catching at his hand, 'I do so wish I was not
going, now that the time is come.'

'Nonsense; don't let us have any sentiment. Have you got your keys?
that's more to the purpose.'

Yes; she had got her keys, and her purse; and her little box was put up
on the seat by the coachman; and her father handed her in; the door was
shut, and she drove away in solitary grandeur, looking back and kissing
her hand to her father, who stood at the gate, in spite of his dislike
of sentiment, as long as the carriage could be seen. Then he turned
into the surgery, and found Mr. Coxe had had his watching too, and had,
indeed, remained at the window gazing, moonstruck, at the empty road,
up which the young lady had disappeared. Mr. Gibson startled him from
his reverie by a sharp, almost venomous, speech about some small
neglect of duty a day or two before. That night Mr. Gibson insisted on
passing by the bedside of a poor girl whose parents were worn-out by
many wakeful anxious nights succeeding to hard working days.

Molly cried a little, but checked her tears as soon as she remembered
how annoyed her father would have been at the sight of them. It was
very pleasant driving quickly along in the luxurious carriage, through
the pretty green lanes, with dog-roses and honeysuckles so plentiful
and rathe in the hedges, that she once or twice was tempted to ask the
coachman to stop till she had gathered a nosegay. She began to dread
the end of her little journey of seven miles; the only drawback to
which was, that her silk was not a true clan-tartan, and a little
uncertainty as to Miss Rose's punctuality, At length they came to a
village; straggling cottages lined the road, an old church stood on a
kind of green, with the public-house close by it; there was a great
tree, with a bench all round the trunk, midway between the church gates
and the little inn. The wooden stocks were close to the gates. Molly
had long passed the limit of her rides, but she knew this must be the
village of Hamley, and they must be very near to the hall.

They swung in at the gates of the park in a few minutes, and drove up
through meadow-grass, ripening for hay,--it was no grand aristocratic
deer-park this--to the old red-brick hall; not three hundred yards from
the high-road. There had been no footman sent with the carriage, but a
respectable servant stood at the door, even before they drew up, ready
to receive the expected visitor, and take her into the drawing-room
where his mistress lay awaiting her.

Mrs. Hamley rose from her sofa to give Molly a gentle welcome; she kept
the girl's hand in hers after she had finished speaking, looking into
her face, as if studying it, and unconscious of the faint blush she
called up on the otherwise colourless cheeks.

'I think we shall be great friends,' said she, at length. 'I like your
face, and I am always guided by first impressions. Give me a kiss, my
dear.'

It was far easier to be active than passive during this process of
'swearing eternal friendship,' and Molly willingly kissed the sweet
pale face held up to her.

'I meant to have gone and fetched you myself; but the heat oppresses
me, and I did not feel up to the exertion. I hope you had a pleasant
drive?'

'Very,' said Molly, with shy conciseness.

'And now I will take you to your room; I have had you put close to me;
I thought you would like it better, even though it was a smaller room
than the other.'

She rose languidly, and wrapping her light shawl round her yet elegant
figure, led the way upstairs. Molly's bedroom opened out of Mrs.
Hamley's private sitting-room; on the other side of which was her own
bedroom. She showed Molly this easy means of communication, and then,
telling her visitor she would await her in the sitting-room, she closed
the door, and Molly was left at leisure to make acquaintance with her
surroundings.

First of all, she went to the window to see what was to be seen. A
flower-garden right below; a meadow of ripe grass just beyond, changing
colour in long sweeps, as the soft wind blew over it; great old forest-
trees a little on one side; and, beyond them again, to be seen only by
standing very close to the side of the window-sill, or by putting her
head out, if the window was open, the silver shimmer of a mere, about a
quarter of a mile off. On the opposite side to the trees and the mere,
the look-out was bounded by the old walls and high-peaked roofs of the
extensive farm-buildings. The deliciousness of the early summer silence
was only broken by the song of the birds, and the nearer hum of bees.
Listening to these sounds, which enhanced the exquisite sense of
stillness, and puzzling out objects obscured by distance or shadow,
Molly forgot herself, and was suddenly startled into a sense of the
present by a sound of voices in the next room--some servant or other
speaking to Mrs. Hamley. Molly hurried to unpack her box, and arrange
her few clothes in the pretty old-fashioned chest of drawers, which was
to serve her as dressing-table as well. All the furniture in the room
was as old-fashioned and as well-preserved as it could be. The chintz
curtains were Indian calico of the last century--the colours almost
washed out, but the stuff itself exquisitely clean. There was a little
strip of bedside carpeting, but the wooden flooring, thus liberally
displayed, was of finely-grained oak, so firmly joined, plank to plank,
that no grain of dust could make its way into the interstices. There
were none of the luxuries of modern days; no writing-table, or sofa, or
pier-glass. In one corner of the walls was a bracket, holding an Indian
jar filled with pot-pourri; and that and the climbing honeysuckle
outside the open window scented the room more exquisitely than any
_toilette_ perfumes. Molly laid out her white gown (of last year's date
and size) upon the bed, ready for the (to her new) operation of
dressing for dinner, and having arranged her hair and dress, and taken
out her company worsted-work,' she opened the door softly, and saw Mrs.
Hamley lying on the sofa.

'Shall we stay up here, m dear? I think it is pleasanter than down
below; and then I shall not have to come upstairs again at dressing-
time.'

'I shall like it very much,' replied Molly.

'Ah! you've got your sewing, like a good girl,' said Mrs. Hamley. 'Now,
I don't sew much. I live alone a great deal. You see, both my boys are
at Cambridge, and the squire is out of doors all day long--so I have
almost forgotten how to sew. I read a great deal. Do you like reading?'

'It depends upon the kind of book,' said Molly. 'I'm afraid I don't
like "steady reading," as papa calls it.'

'But you like poetry!' said Mrs. Hamley, almost interrupting Molly. 'I
was sure you did, from your face. Have you read this last poem of Mrs.
Hemans? Shall I read it aloud to you?'

So she began. Molly was not so much absorbed in listening but that she
could glance round the room. The character of the furniture was much
the same as in her own. Old-fashioned, of handsome material, and
faultlessly clean; the age and the foreign appearance of it gave an
aspect of comfort and picturesqueness to the whole apartment. On the
walls there hung some crayon sketches--portraits. She thought she could
make out that one of them was a likeness of Mrs. Hamley, in her
beautiful youth. And then she became interested in the poem, and
dropped her work, and listened in a manner that was after Mrs Hamley's
own heart. When the reading of the poem was ended, Mrs Hamley replied
to some of Molly's words of admiration, by saying,--

'Ah! I think I must read you some of Osborne's poetry some day; under
seal of secrecy, remember; but I really fancy they are almost as good
as Mrs. Hemans'.'

To be 'nearly as good as Mrs. Hemans' was saying as much to the young
ladies of that day, as saying that poetry is nearly as good as
Tennyson's would be in this. Molly looked up with eager interest.

'Mr. Osborne Hamley? Does your son write poetry?'

'Yes. I really think I may say he is a poet. He is a very brilliant,
clever young man, and he quite hopes to get a fellowship at Trinity. He
says he is sure to be high up among the wranglers, and that he expects
to get one of the Chancellor's medals. That is his likeness--the one
hanging against the wall behind you.'

Molly turned round, and saw one of the crayon sketches--representing
two boys, in the most youthful kind of jackets and trousers, and
falling collars. The elder was sitting down, reading intently. The
younger was standing by him, and evidently trying to call the attention
of the reader off to some object out of doors--out of the window of the
very room in which they were sitting, as Molly discovered when she
began to recognize the articles of furniture faintly indicated in the
picture.

'I like their faces!' said Molly. 'I suppose it is so long ago now,
that I may speak of their likenesses to you as if they were somebody
else; may not I?'

'Certainly,' said Mrs. Hamley, as soon as she understood what Molly
meant. 'Tell me just what you think of them, my dear; it will amuse me
to compare your impressions with what they really are.'

'Oh! but I did not mean to guess at their characters. I could not do
it; and it would be impertinent, if I could. I can only speak about
their faces as I see them in the picture.'

'Well! tell me what you think of them!'

'The eldest--the reading boy--is very beautiful; but I can't quite make
out his face yet, because his head is down, and I can't see the eyes.
That is the Mr. Osborne Hamley who writes poetry?'

'Yes. He is not quite so handsome now; but he was a beautiful boy.
Roger was never to be compared with him.'

'No; he is not handsome. And yet I like his face. I can see his eyes.
They are grave and solemn-looking; but all the rest of his face is
rather merry than otherwise. It looks too steady and sober, too good a
face, to go tempting his brother to leave his lesson.'

'Ah! but it was not a lesson. I remember the painter, Mr. Green, once
saw Osborne reading some poetry, while Roger was trying to persuade him
to come out and have a ride in the hay-cart--that was the "motive" of
the picture, to speak artistically. Roger is not much of a reader; at
least, he doesn't care for poetry, and books of romance, or sentiment.
He is so fond of natural history; and that takes him, like the squire,
a great deal out of doors; and when he is in, he is always reading
scientific books that bear upon his pursuits. He is a good, steady
fellow, though, and gives us great satisfaction, but he is not likely
to have such a brilliant career as Osborne.'

Molly tried to find out in the picture the characteristics of the two
boys, as they were now explained to her by their mother; and in
questions and answers about the various drawings hung round the room
the time passed away until the dressing-bell rang for the six o'clock
dinner.

Molly was rather dismayed by the offers of the maid whom Mrs. Hamley
had sent to assist her. 'I am afraid they expect me to be very smart,'
she kept thinking to herself. 'If they do, they'll be disappointed;
that's all. But I wish my plaid silk gown had been ready.'

She looked at herself in the glass with some anxiety, for the first
time in her life. She saw a slight, lean figure, promising to be tall;
a complexion browner than cream-coloured, although in a year or two it
might have that tint; plentiful curly black hair, tied up in a bunch
behind with a rose--coloured ribbon; long, almond-shaped, soft grey
eyes, shaded both above and below by curling black eye-lashes.

'I don't think I am pretty,' thought Molly, as she turned away from the
glass; 'and yet I am not sure.' She would have been sure, if, instead
of inspecting herself with such solemnity, she had smiled her own sweet
merry smile, and called out the gleam of her teeth, and the charm of
her dimples.

She found her way downstairs into the drawing-room in good time; she
could look about her, and learn how to feel at home in her new
quarters. The room was forty-feet long or so, fitted up with yellow
satin at some distant period; high spindle-legged chairs and pembroke-
tables abounded. The carpet was of the same date as the curtains, and
was threadbare in many places; and in others was covered with drugget.
Stands of plants, great jars of flowers, old Indian china and cabinets
gave the room the pleasant aspect it certainly had. And to add to it,
there were five high, long windows on one side of the room, all opening
to the prettiest bit of flower-garden in the grounds--or what was
considered as such--brilliant-coloured, geometrically-shaped beds,
converging to a sun-dial in the midst. The squire came in abruptly, and
in his morning dress; he stood at the door, as if surprised at the
white-robed stranger in possession of his hearth. Then, suddenly
remembering himself, but not before Molly had begun to feel very hot,
he said,--

'Why, God bless my soul, I'd quite forgotten you; you're Miss Gibson,
Gibson's daughter, aren't you? Come to pay us a visit? I'm sure I'm
very glad to see you, my dear.'

By this time, they had met in the middle of the room, and he was
shaking Molly's hand with vehement friendliness, intended to make up
for his not knowing her at first.

'I must go and dress, though,' he said, looking at his soiled gaiters.
'Madam likes it. It's one of her fine London ways, and she's broken me
into it at last. Very good plan, though, and quite right to make
oneself fit for ladies' society. Does your father dress for dinner,
Miss Gibson?' He did not stay to wait for her answer, but hastened away
to perform his _toilette_.

They dined at a small table in a great large room. There were so few
articles of furniture in it, and the apartment itself was so vast, that
Molly longed for the snugness of the home dining-room; nay, it is to be
feared that, before the stately dinner at Hamley Hall came to an end,
she even regretted the crowded chairs and tables, the hurry of eating,
the quick unformal manner in which everybody seemed to finish their
meal as fast as possible, and to return to the work they had left. She
tried to think that at six o'clock all the business of the day was
ended, and that people might linger if they chose. She measured the
distance from the sideboard to the table with her eye, and made
allowances for the men who had to carry things backwards and forwards;
but, all the same, this dinner appeared to her a wearisome business,
prolonged because the squire liked it, for Mrs. Hamley seemed tired
out. She ate even less than Molly, and sent for fan and smelling--
bottle to amuse herself with, until at length the table-cloth was
cleared away, and the dessert was put upon a mahogany table, polished
like a looking-glass.

The squire had hitherto been too busy to talk, except about the
immediate concerns of the table, and one or two of the greatest breaks
to the usual monotony of his days; a monotony in which he delighted,
but which sometimes became oppressive to his wife. Now, however,
peeling his orange, he turned to Molly,--

'To-morrow you'll have to do this for me Miss Gibson.'

'Shall I? I'll do it to-day, if you like, sir.'

'No; to-day I shall treat you as a visitor, with all proper ceremony.
To-morrow I shall send you errands, and call you by your Christian
name.'

'I shall like that,' said Molly.

'I was wanting to call you something less formal than Miss Gibson,'
said Mrs. Hamley.

'My name is Molly. It is an old-fashioned name, and I was christened
Mary. But papa likes Molly.'

'That's right. Keep to the good old fashions, my dear.'

'Well, I must say I think Mary is prettier than Molly, and quite as old
a name, too,' said Mrs. Hamley.

'I think it was,' said Molly, lowering her voice, and dropping her
eyes, 'because mamma was Mary, and I was called Molly while she lived.'

'Ah, poor thing,' said the squire, not perceiving his wife's signs to
change the subject, 'I remember how sorry every one was when she died;
no one thought she was delicate, she had such a fresh colour, till all
at once she popped off, as one may say.'

'It must have been a terrible blow to your father,' said Mrs. Hamley,
seeing that Molly did not know what to answer.

'Ay, ay. It came so sudden, so soon after they were married.'

'I thought it was nearly four years,' said Molly.

'And four years is soon--is a short time to a couple who look to
spending their lifetime together. Every one thought Gibson would have
married again.'

'Hush,' said Mrs. Hamley, seeing in Molly's eyes and change of colour
how completely this was a new idea to her. But the squire was not so
easily stopped.

'Well--I'd perhaps better not have said it, but it's the truth; they
did. He's not likely to marry now, so one may say it out. Why, your
father is past forty, isn't he?'

'Forty-three. I don't believe he ever thought of marrying again,' said
Molly, recurring to the idea, as one does to that of danger which has
passed by, without one's being aware of it.

'No! I don't believe he did my dear. He looks to me just like a man who
would be constant to the memory of his wife. You must not mind what the
squire says.'

'Ah! you'd better go away, if you're going to teach Miss Gibson such
treason as that against the master of the house.' Molly went into the
drawing-room with Mrs. Hamley, but her thoughts did not change with the
room. She could not help dwelling on the danger which she fancied she
had escaped, and was astonished at her own stupidity at never having
imagined such a possibility as her father's second marriage. She felt
that she was answering Mrs. Hamley's remarks in a very unsatisfactory
manner.

'There is papa, with the squire!' she suddenly exclaimed. There they
were coming across the flower-garden from the stable-yard, her father
switching his boots with his riding whip, in order to make them
presentable in Mrs. Hamley's drawing-room. He looked so exactly like
his usual self, his home-self, that the seeing him in the flesh was the
most efficacious way of dispelling the phantom fears of a second
wedding, which were beginning to harass his daughter's mind; and the
pleasant conviction that he could not rest till he had come over to see
how she was going on in her new home, stole into her heart, although he
spoke but little to her, and that little was all in a joking tone.
After he had gone away, the squire undertook to teach her cribbage; and
she was happy enough now to give him all her attention. He kept on
prattling while they played; sometimes in relation to the cards; at
others telling her of small occurrences which he thought might interest
her.

'So you don't know my boys, even by sight. I should have thought you
would have done, for they are fond enough of riding into Hollingford;
and I know Roger has often enough been to borrow books from your
father. Roger is a scientific sort of a fellow. Osborne is clever, like
this mother. I should not wonder if he published a book some day.
You're not counting right, Miss Gibson. Why, I could cheat you as
easily as possible.' And so on, till the butler came in with a solemn
look, placed a large prayer-book before his master, who huddled the
cards away in a hurry, as if caught in an incongruous employment; and
then the maids and men trooped in to prayers--the windows were still
open, and the sounds of the solitary corncrake, and the owl hooting in
the trees, mingled with the words spoken. Then to bed; and so ended the
day.

Molly looked out of her chamber window--leaning on the sill, and
snuffing up the night odours of the honeysuckle. The soft velvet
darkness hid everything that was at any distance from her; although she
was as conscious of their presence as if she had seen them.

'I think I shall be very happy here,' was in Molly's thoughts, as she
turned away at length, and began to prepare for bed. Before long the
squire's words, relating to her father's second marriage, came across
her, and spoilt the sweet peace of her final thoughts. 'Who could he
have married?' she asked herself. 'Miss Eyre? Miss Browning? Miss
Phoebe? Miss Goodenough?' One by one, each of these was rejected for
sufficient reasons. Yet the unsatisfied question rankled in her mind,
and darted out of ambush to disturb her dreams.

Mrs. Hamley did not come down to breakfast; and Molly found out, with a
little dismay, that the squire and she were to have it by themselves.
On this first morning he put aside his newspapers--one an old
established Tory journal, with all the local and county news, which was
the most interesting to him; the other the _Morning Chronicle_, which
he called his dose of bitters, and which called out many a strong
expression and tolerably pungent oath. To-day, however, he was 'on his
manners,' as he afterwards explained to Molly; and he plunged about,
trying to find ground for a conversation. He could talk of his wife and
his sons, his estate, and his mode of farming; his tenants, and the
mismanagement of the last county election. Molly's interests were her
father, Miss Eyre, her garden and pony; in a fainter degree the Miss
Brownings, the Cumnor Charity School, and the new gown that was to come
from Miss Rose's; into the midst of which the one great question, 'Who
was it that people thought it was possible papa might marry?' kept
popping up into her mouth, like a troublesome Jack-in-the-box. For the
present, however, the lid was snapped down upon the intruder as often
as he showed his head between her teeth. They were very polite to each
other during the meal; and it was not a little tiresome to both. When
it was ended the squire withdrew into his study to read the untasted
newspapers. It was the custom to call the room in which Squire Hamley
kept his coats, boots, and gaiters, his different sticks and favourite
spud, his gun and fishing-rods, the study. There was a bureau in it,
and a three-cornered arm-chair, but no books were visible. The greater
part of them were kept in a large, musty-smelling room, in an
unfrequented part of the house; so unfrequented that the housemaid
often neglected to open the window-shutters, which looked into a part
of the grounds over-grown with the luxuriant growth of shrubs. Indeed,
it was a tradition in the servants' hall that, in the late squire's
time--he who had been plucked at college--the library windows had been
boarded up to avoid paying the window-tax. And when the 'young
gentlemen' were at home the housemaid, without a single direction to
that effect, was regular in her charge of this room; opened the windows
and lighted fires daily, and dusted the handsomely-bound volumes, which
were really a very fair collection of the standard literature in the
middle of the last century. All the books that had been purchased since
that time were held in small book-cases between each two of the
drawing-room windows, and in Mrs. Hamley's own sitting-room upstairs.
Those in the drawing-room were quite enough to employ Molly; indeed she
was so deep in one of Sir Walter Scott's novels that she jumped as if
she had been shot, when an hour or so after breakfast the squire came
to the gravel-path outside one of the windows, and called to ask her if
she would like to come out of doors and go about the garden and home-
fields with him.

'It must be a little dull for you, my girl, all by yourself, with
nothing but books to look at, in the mornings here; but you see, madam
has a fancy for being quiet in the mornings: she told your father about
it, and so did I, but I felt sorry for you all the same, when I saw you
sitting on the ground all alone in the drawing-room.'

Molly had been in the very middle of the _Bride of Lammermoor_, and
would gladly have stayed in-doors to finish it, but she felt the
squire's kindness all the same. They went in and out of old-fashioned
greenhouses, over trim lawns, the squire unlocked the great walled
kitchen-garden, and went about giving directions to gardeners; and all
the time Molly followed him like a little dog, her mind quite full of
'Ravenswood' and 'Lucy Ashton.' Presently, every place near the house
had been inspected and regulated, and the squire was more at liberty to
give his attention to his companion, as they passed through the little
wood that separated the gardens from the adjoining fields. Molly, too,
plucked away her thoughts from the seventeenth century; and, somehow or
other, that one question, which had so haunted her before, came out of
her lips before she was aware--a literal impromptu,--

'Who did people think papa would marry? That time--long ago--soon after
mamma died?'

She dropped her voice very soft and low, as she spoke the last words.
The squire turned round upon her, and looked at her face, he knew not
why. It was very grave, a little pale, but her steady eyes almost
commanded some kind of answer.

'Whew,' said he, whistling to gain time; not that he had anything
definite to say, for no one had ever had any reason to join Mr Gibson's
name with any known lady: it was only a loose conjecture that had been
hazarded on the probabilities--a young widower, with a little girl.

'I never heard of any one--his name was never coupled with any lady's--
'twas only in the nature of things that he should marry again; he may
do it yet, for aught I know, and I don't think it would be a bad move
either. I told him so, the last time but one he was here.'

'And what did he say?' asked breathless Molly.

'Oh: he only smiled, and said nothing. You shouldn't take up words so
seriously, my dear. Very likely he may never think of marrying again,
and if he did, it would be a very good thing both for him and for you!'

Molly muttered something, as if to herself, but the squire might have
heard it if he had chosen. As it was, he wisely turned the current of
the conversation.

'Look at that!' he said, as they suddenly came upon the mere, or large
pond. There was a small island in the middle of the glassy water, on
which grew tall trees, dark Scotch firs in the centre, silvery
shimmering willows close to the water's edge. 'We must get you punted
over there, some of these days. I'm not fond of using the boat at this
time of the year, because the young birds are still in the nests among
the reeds and water-plants; but we'll go. There are coots and grebes.'

'Oh, look, there's a swan!'

'Yes; there are two pair of them here. And in those trees there is both
a rookery and a heronry; the herons ought to be here by now, for
they're off to the sea in August, but I have not seen one yet. Stay! is
not that one--that fellow on a stone, with his long neck bent down,
looking into the water?'

'Yes! I think so. I have never seen a heron, only pictures of them.'

'They and the rooks are always at war, which does not do for such near
neighbours. If both herons leave the nest they are building, the rooks
come and tear it to pieces; and once Roger showed me a long straggling
fellow of a heron, with a flight of rooks after him, with no friendly
purpose in their minds, I'll be bound. Roger knows a deal of natural
history, and finds out queer things sometimes. He would have been off a
dozen times during this walk of ours, if he'd been here; his eyes are
always wandering about, and see twenty things where I only see one.
Why! I have known him bolt into a copse because he saw something
fifteen yards off--some plant, maybe, which he would tell me was very
rare, though I should say I'd seen its marrow at every turn in the
woods; and, if we came upon such a thing as this,' touching a delicate
film of a cobweb upon a leaf with his stick, as he spoke, 'why, he
could tell you what insect or spider made it, and if it lived in rotten
fir-wood, or in a cranny of good sound timber, or deep down in the
ground, or up in the sky, or anywhere. It is a pity they don't take
honours in Natural History at Cambridge. Roger would be safe enough if
they did.'

'Mr. Osborne Hamley is very clever, is he not?' Molly asked, timidly.

'Oh, yes. Osborne's a bit of a genius. His mother looks for great
things from Osborne. I'm rather proud of him myself. He'll get a
Trinity fellowship, if they play him fair. As I was saying at the
magistrates' meeting yesterday, "I've got a son who will make a noise
at Cambridge, or I'm very much mistaken." Now, is it not a queer quip
of Nature,' continued the squire, turning his honest face towards
Molly, as if he was going to impart a new idea to her, 'that I, a
Hamley of Hamley, straight in descent from nobody knows when--the
Heptarchy, they say--What's the date of the Heptarchy?'

'I don't know,' said Molly, startled at being thus appealed to.

'Well! it was some time before King Alfred, because he was the King of
all England, you know; but, as I was saying, here am I, of as good and
as old a descent as any man in England, and I doubt if a stranger to
look at me, would take me for a gentleman, with my red face, great
hands and feet, and thick figure, fourteen stone, and never less than
twelve even when I was a young man;' and there's Osborne, who takes
after his mother, who could not tell her great-grandfather from Adam,
bless her; and Osborne has a girl's delicate face, and a slight make,
and hands and feet as small as a lady's. He takes after madam's side,
who, as I said, can't tell who was their grandfather. Now, Roger is
like me, a Hamley of Hamley, and no one who sees him in the street will
ever think that red-brown, big-boned, clumsy chap is of gentle blood.
Yet all those Cumnor people, you make such ado of in Hollingford, are
mere muck of yesterday. I was talking to madam the other day about
Osborne's marrying a daughter of Lord Hollingford's--that's to say, if
he had a daughter--he's only got boys, as it happens; but I'm not sure
if I should consent to it. I really am not sure; for you see Osborne
will have had a first-rate education, and his family dates from the
Heptarchy, while I should be glad to know where the Cumnor folk were in
the time of Queen Anne?' He walked on, pondering the question of
whether he could have given his consent to this impossible marriage;
and after some time, and when Molly had quite forgotten the subject to
which he alluded, he broke out with--'No! I am sure I should have
looked higher. So, perhaps, it's as well my Lord Hollingford has only
boys.'

After a while, he thanked Molly for her companionship, with old-
fashioned courtesy; and told her that he thought, by this time, madam
would be up and dressed, and glad to have her young visitor with her.
He pointed out the deep purple house, with its stone facings, as it was
seen at some distance between the trees, and watched her protectingly
on her way along the field-paths.

'That's a nice girl of Gibson's,' quoth he to himself. 'But what a
tight hold the wench got of the notion of his marrying again! One had
need be on one's guard as to what one says before her. To think of her
never having thought of the chance of a step-mother. To be sure, a
step-mother to a girl is a different thing to a second wife to a man!'




CHAPTER VII

FORESHADOWS OF LOVE PERILS


If Squire Hamley had been unable to tell Molly who had ever been
thought of as her father's second wife, fate was all this time
preparing an answer of a pretty positive kind to her wondering
curiosity. But fate is a cunning hussy, and builds up her plans as
imperceptibly as a bird builds her nest; and with much the same kind of
unconsidered trifles.' The first 'trifle' of an event was the
disturbance which Jenny (Mr. Gibson's cook) chose to make at Bethia's
being dismissed. Bethia was a distant relation and _protegee_ of
Jenny's, and she chose to say it was Mr. Coxe the tempter who ought to
have 'been sent packing,' not Bethia the tempted, the victim. In this
view there was quite enough plausibility to make Mr. Gibson feel that
he had been rather unjust. He had, however, taken care to provide
Bethia with another situation, to the full as good as that which she
held in his family. Jenny, nevertheless, chose to give warning; and
though Mr. Gibson knew full well from former experience that her
warnings were words, not deeds, he hated the discomfort, the
uncertainty,--the entire disagreeableness of meeting a woman at any
time in his house, who wore a grievance and an injury upon her face as
legibly as Jenny took care to do.

Down into the middle of this small domestic trouble came another, and
one of greater consequence. Miss Eyre had gone with her old mother, and
her orphan nephews and nieces, to the sea-side, during Molly's absence,
which was only intended at first to last for a fortnight. After about
ten days of this time had elapsed, Mr. Gibson received a beautifully
written, beautifully worded, admirably folded, and most neatly sealed
letter from Miss Eyre. Her eldest nephew had fallen ill of scarlet
fever, and there was every probability that the younger children would
be attacked by the same complaint. It was distressing enough for poor
Miss Eyre--this additional expense, this anxiety--the long detention
from home which the illness involved. But she said not a word of any
inconvenience to herself; she only apologized with humble sincerity for
her inability to return at the appointed time to her charge in Mr
Gibson's family; meekly adding, that perhaps it was as well, for Molly
had never had the scarlet fever, and even if Miss Eyre had been able to
leave the orphan children to return to her employments, it might not
have been a safe or a prudent step.

'To be sure not,' said Mr. Gibson, tearing the letter in two, and
throwing it into the hearth, where he soon saw it burnt to ashes. 'I
wish I'd a five-pound house and not a woman within ten miles of me. I
might have some peace then.' Apparently, he forgot Mr. Coxe's powers of
making mischief; but indeed he might have traced that evil back to
unconscious Molly. The martyr-cook's entrance to take away the
breakfast things, which she announced by a heavy sigh, roused Mr Gibson
from thought to action.

'Molly must stay a little longer at Hamley,' he resolved. 'They've
often asked for her, and now they'll have enough of her, I think. But I
can't have her back here just yet; and so the best I can do for her is
to leave her where she is. Mrs. Hamley seems very fond of her, and the
child is looking happy, and stronger in health. I'll ride round by
Hamley to-day at any rate, and see how the land lies.'

He found Mrs. Hamley lying on a sofa placed under the shadow of the
great cedar-tree on the lawn. Molly was flitting about her, gardening
away under her directions; tying up the long sea-green stalks of bright
budded carnations, snipping off dead roses.

'Oh! here's papa!' she cried out joyfully, as he rode up to the white
paling which separated the trim lawn and trimmer flower-garden from the
rough park-like ground in front of the house.

'Come in--come here--through the drawing-room window,' said Mrs Hamley,
raising herself on her elbow. 'We've got a rose-tree to show you that
Molly has budded all by herself. We are both so proud of it.'

So Mr. Gibson rode round to the stables, left his horse there, and made
his way through the house to the open-air summer-parlour under the
cedar-tree, where there were chairs, a table, books, and tangled work.
Somehow, he rather disliked asking for Molly to prolong her visit; so
he determined to swallow his bitter first, and then take the pleasure
of the delicious day, the sweet repose, the murmurous, scented air.
Molly stood by him, her hand on his shoulder. He sate opposite to Mrs.
Hamley.

'I have come here to-day to ask for a favour,' he began.

'Granted before you name it. Am not I a bold woman?'

He smiled and bowed, but went straight on with his speech.

'Miss Eyre, who has been Molly's--governess, I suppose I must call her
--for many years, writes to-day to say that one of the little nephews
she took with her to Newport while Molly was staying here, has caught
the scarlet fever.'

'I guess your request. I make it before you do. I beg for dear little
Molly to stay on here. Of course Miss Eyre can't come back to you; and
of course Molly must stay here!'

'Thank you; thank you very much. That was my request.'

Molly's hand stole down to his, and nestled in that firm compact grasp.

'Papa!--Mrs. Hamley!--I know you'll both understand me--but mayn't I go
home? I am very very happy here; but--oh papa! I think I should like to
be at home with you best.'

An uncomfortable suspicion flashed across his mind. He pulled her
round, and looked straight and piercingly into her innocent face. Her
colour came at his unwonted scrutiny, but her sweet eyes were filled
with wonder, rather than with any feeling which he dreaded to find. For
an instant he had doubted whether young red-headed Mr Coxe's love might
not have called out a response in his daughter's breast; but he was
quite clear now.

'Molly, you're rude to begin with. I don't know how you're to make your
peace with Mrs. Hamley, I'm sure. And in the next place, do you think
you're wiser than I am; or that I don't want you at home, if all other
things were conformable? Stay where you are, and be thankful.'

Molly knew him well enough to be certain that the prolongation of her
visit at Hamley was quite a decided affair in his mind; and then she
was smitten with a sense of ingratitude. She left her father, and went
to Mrs. Hamley, and bent over and kissed her; but she did not speak.
Mrs. Hamley took hold of her hand, and made room on the sofa for her.

'I was going to have asked for a longer visit the next time you came,
Mr. Gibson. We are such happy friends, are not we, Molly? and now that
this good little nephew of Miss Eyre's----'

'I wished he was whipped,' said Mr. Gibson.

'--has given us such a capital reason, I shall keep Molly for a real
long visitation. You must come over and see us very often. There's a
room here for you always, you know; and I don't see why you should not
start on your rounds from Hamley every morning, just as well as from
Hollingford.'

'Thank you. If you had not been so kind to my little girl, I might be
tempted to say something rude in answer to your last speech.'

'Pray say it. You won't be easy till you have given it out, I know.'

'Mrs. Hamley has found out from whom I get my rudeness,' said Molly,
triumphantly. 'It's an hereditary quality.'

'I was going to say that proposal of yours that I should sleep at
Hamley was just like a woman's idea--all kindness, and no common sense.
How in the world would my patients find me out, seven miles from my
accustomed place? They'd be sure to send for some other doctor, and I
should be ruined in a month.'

'Could not they send on here? A messenger costs very little.'

'Fancy old Goody Henbury struggling up to my surgery, groaning at every
step, and then being told to just step on seven miles farther! Or take
the other end of society:--I don't think my Lady Cumnor's smart groom
would thank me for having to ride on to Hamley every time his mistress
wants me.'

'Well, well, I submit. I am a woman. Molly, thou art a woman! Go and
order some strawberries and cream for this father of yours. Such humble
offices fall within the province of women. Strawberries and cream are
all kindness and no common sense, for they'll give him a horrid fit of
indigestion.'

'Please speak for yourself, Mrs. Hamley,' said Molly, merrily. 'I ate--
oh, such a great basketful yesterday, and the squire went himself to
the dairy and brought me out a great bowl of cream when he found me at
my busy work. And I'm as well as ever I was, to-day, and never had a
touch of indigestion near me.'

'She's a good girl,' said her father, when she had danced out of
hearing. The words were not quite an inquiry, he was so certain of his
answer. There was a mixture of tenderness and trust in his eyes, as he
awaited the reply, which came in a moment.

'She's a darling! I cannot tell you how fond the squire and I are of
her; both of us. I am so delighted to think she is not to go away for a
long time. The first thing I thought of this morning when I wakened up,
was that she would soon have to return to you, unless I could persuade
you into leaving her with me a little longer. And now she must stay--
oh, two months at least.'

It was quite true that the squire had become very fond of Molly. The
charm of having a young girl dancing and singing inarticulate ditties
about the house and garden, was indescribable in its novelty to him.
And then Molly was so willing and so wise; ready both to talk and to
listen at the right times. Mrs. Hamley was quite right in speaking of
her husband's fondness for Molly. But either she herself chose a wrong
time for telling him of the prolongation of the girl's visit, or one of
the fits of temper to which he was liable, but which he generally
strove to check in the presence of his wife, was upon him; at any rate,
he received the news in anything but a gracious frame of mind.

'Stay longer! Did Gibson ask for it?' 'Yes! I don't see what else is to
become of her; Miss Eyre away and all. It's a very awkward position for
a motherless girl like her to be at the head of a household with two
young men in it.'

'That's Gibson's look-out; he should have thought of it before taking
pupils, or apprentices, or whatever he calls them.'

'My dear squire! Why, I thought you'd be as glad as I was--as I am to
keep Molly. I asked her to stay for an indefinite time; two months at
least.'

'And to be in the house with Osborne! Roger, too, will be at home.'

By the cloud in the squire's eyes, Mrs. Hamley read his mind.

'Oh, she's not at all the sort of girl young men of their age would
take to. We like her because we see what she really is; but lads of one
or two and twenty want all the accessories of a young woman.'

'Want what?' growled the squire.

'Such things as becoming dress, style of manner. They would not at
their age even see that she is pretty; their ideas of beauty would
include colour.'

'I suppose all that's very clever; but I don't understand it. All I
know is, that it's a very dangerous thing to shut two young men of one
and three and twenty up in a country-house like this, with a girl of
seventeen--choose what her gowns may be like, or her hair, or her eyes.
And I told you particularly I didn't want Osborne, or either of them,
indeed, to be falling in love with her. I'm very much annoyed.'

Mrs. Hamley's face fell; she became a little pale.

'Shall we make arrangements for their stopping away while she is here;
staying up at Cambridge, or reading with some one? going abroad for a
month or two?'

'No; you've been reckoning this ever so long on their coming home. I've
seen the marks of the weeks on your almanack. I'd sooner speak to
Gibson, and tell him he must take his daughter away, for it's not
convenient to us----'

'My dear Roger! I beg you will do no such thing. It will be so unkind;
it will give the lie to all I said yesterday. Don't, please, do that.
For my sake, don't speak to Mr. Gibson!'

'Well, well, don't put yourself in a flutter,' for he was afraid of her
becoming hysterical; 'I'll speak to Osborne when he comes home, and
tell him how much I should dislike anything of the kind.'

'And Roger is always far too full of his natural history and
comparative anatomy, and messes of that sort, to be thinking of falling
in love with Venus herself, He has not the sentiment and imagination of
Osborne.'

'Ah, you don't know; you never can be sure about a young man! But with
Roger it wouldn't so much signify. He would know he couldn't marry for
years to come.'

All that afternoon the squire tried to steer clear of Molly, to whom he
felt himself to have been an inhospitable traitor. But she was so
perfectly unconscious of his shyness of her, and so merry and sweet in
her behaviour as a welcome guest, never distrusting him for a moment,
however gruff he might be, that by the next morning she had completely
won him round, and they were quite on the old terms again. At breakfast
this very morning, a letter was passed from the squire to his wife, and
back again, without a word as to its contents; but--

'Fortunate!'

'Yes! very!'

Little did Molly apply these expressions to the piece of news Mrs
Hamley told her in the course of the day; namely, that her son Osborne
had received an invitation to stay with a friend in the neighbourhood
of Cambridge, and perhaps to make a tour on the Continent with him
subsequently; and that, consequently, he would not accompany his
brother when Roger came home.

Molly was very sympathetic.

'Oh, dear! I am so sorry!'

Mrs. Hamley was thankful her husband was not present, Molly spoke the
words so heartily.

'You have been thinking so long of his coming home. I am afraid it is a
great disappointment.'

Mrs. Hamley smiled--relieved.

'Yes! it is a disappointment certainly, but we must think of Osborne's
pleasure. And with his poetical mind, he will write us such delightful
travelling letters. Poor fellow! He must be going into the examination
to-day! Both his father and I feel sure, though, that he will be a high
wrangler.' Only--I should like to have seen him, my own dear boy. But
it is best as it is.'

Molly was a little puzzled by this speech, but soon put it out of her
head. It was a disappointment to her, too, that she should not see this
beautiful, brilliant young man, his mother's hero. From time to time
her maiden fancy had dwelt upon what he would be like; how the lovely
boy of the picture in Mrs. Hamley's dressing-room would have changed in
the ten years that had elapsed since the likeness was taken; if he
would read poetry aloud; if he would even read his own poetry. However,
in the never-ending feminine business of the day, she soon forgot her
own disappointment; it only came back to her on first wakening the next
morning, as a vague something that was not quite so pleasant as she had
anticipated, and then was banished as a subject of regret. Her days at
Hamley were well filled up with the small duties that would have
belonged to a daughter of the house had there been one. She made
breakfast for the lonely squire, and would willingly have carried up
madam's, but that daily piece of work belonged to the squire, and was
jealously guarded by him. She read the smaller print of the newspapers
aloud to him, city articles, money and corn-markets included. She
strolled about the gardens with him, gathering fresh flowers,
meanwhile, to deck the drawing-room against Mrs. Hamley should come
down. She was her companion when she took her drives in the close
carriage; they read poetry and mild literature together in Mrs.
Hamley's sitting-room upstairs. She was quite clever at cribbage now,
and could beat the squire if she took pains. Besides these things,
there were her own independent ways of employing herself. She used to
try to practise a daily hour on the old grand piano in the solitary
drawing-room, because she had promised Miss Eyre she would do so. And
she had found her way into the library, and used to undo the heavy bars
of the shutters if the housemaid had forgotten this duty, and mount the
ladder, sitting on the steps, for an hour at a time, deep in some book
of the old English classics. The summer days were very short to this
happy girl of seventeen.




CHAPTER VIII

DRIFTING INTO DANGER


On Thursday, the quiet country household was stirred through all its
fibres with the thought of Roger's coming home. Mrs. Hamley had not
seemed quite so well, or quite in such good spirits for two or three
days before; and the squire himself had appeared to be put out without
any visible cause. They had not chosen to tell Molly that Osborne's
name had only appeared very low down in the mathematical tripos. So all
that their visitor knew was that something was out of tune, and she
hoped that Roger's coming home would set it to rights, for it was
beyond the power of her small cares and wiles.

On Thursday, the housemaid apologized to her for some slight negligence
in her bedroom, by saying she had been busy scouring Mr Roger's rooms.
'Not but what they were as clean as could be beforehand; but mistress
would always have the young gentlemen's rooms cleaned afresh before
they came home. If it had been Mr Osborne, the whole house would have
had to be done; but to be sure he was the eldest son, so it was but
likely.' Molly was amused at this testimony to the rights of heirship;
but somehow she herself had fallen into the family manner of thinking
that nothing was too great or too good for 'the eldest son.' In his
father's eyes, Osborne was the representative of the ancient house of
Hamley of Hamley, the future owner of the land which had been theirs
for a thousand years. His mother clung to him because they two were
cast in the same mould, both physically and mentally--because he bore
her maiden name. She had indoctrinated Molly with her faith, and, in
spite of her amusement at the housemaid's speech, the girl visitor
would have been as anxious as any one to show her feudal loyalty to the
heir, if indeed it had been he that was coming. After luncheon, Mrs.
Hamley went to rest, in preparation for Roger's return; and Molly also
retired to her own room, feeling that it would be better for her to
remain there until dinner-time, and so to leave the father and mother
to receive their boy in privacy. She took a book of MS. poems with her;
they were all of Osborne Hamley's composition; and his mother had read
some of them aloud to her young visitor more than once. Molly had asked
permission to copy one or two of those which were her greatest
favourites; and this quiet summer afternoon she took this copying for
her employment, sitting at the pleasant open window, and losing herself
in dreamy out-looks into the gardens and woods, quivering in the
noontide heat. The house was so still, in its silence it might have
been the 'moated grange;' the booming buzz of the blue flies, in the
great staircase window, seemed the loudest noise in-doors. And there
was scarcely a sound out-of-doors but the humming of bees, in the
flower-beds below the window. Distant voices from the far-away fields
in which they were making hay--the scent of which came in sudden wafts
distinct from that of the nearer roses and honey-suckles--these merry
piping voices just made Molly feel the depth of the present silence.
She had left off copying, her hand weary with the unusual exertion of
so much writing, and she was lazily trying to learn one or two of the
poems off by heart.

    'I asked of the wind, but answer made it none,
     Save its accustomed sad and solitary moan--'

she kept saying to herself, losing her sense of whatever meaning the
words had ever had, in the repetition which had become mechanical.
Suddenly there was the snap of a shutting gate; wheels cranching on the
dry gravel, horses' feet on the drive; a loud cheerful voice in the
house, coming up through the open windows, the hall, the passages, the
staircase, with unwonted fulness and roundness of tone. The entrance-
hall downstairs was paved with diamonds of black and white marble; the
low wide staircase that went in short flights around the hall, till you
could look down upon the marble floor from the top story of the house,
was uncarpeted--uncovered. The squire was too proud of his beautifully-
joined oaken flooring to cover this staircase up unnecessarily; not to
say a word of the usual state of want of ready money to expend upon the
decorations of his house. So, through the undraperied hollow square of
the hall and staircase every sound ascended clear and distinct; and
Molly heard the squire's glad 'Hollo! here he is,' and madam's softer,
more plaintive voice; and then the loud, full, strange tone, which she
knew must be Roger's. Then there was an opening and shutting of doors,
and only a distant buzz of talking. Molly began again--

    'I asked of the wind, but answer made it, none.'

And this time she had nearly finished learning the poem, when she heard
Mrs. Hamley come hastily into her sitting-room that adjoined Molly's
bedroom, and burst out into an irrepressible half-hysterical fit of
sobbing. Molly was too young to have any complication of motives which
should prevent her going at once to try and give what comfort she
could. In an instant she was kneeling at Mrs. Hamley's feet, holding
the poor lady's hands, kissing them, murmuring soft words; which, all
unmeaning as they were of aught but sympathy with the untold grief, did
Mrs. Hamley good. She checked herself, smiling sadly at Molly through
the midst of her thick-coming sobs.

'It's only Osborne,' said she, at last. 'Roger has been telling us
about him.'

'What about him?' asked Molly, eagerly.

'I knew on Monday; we had a letter--he said he had not done so well as
we had hoped--as he had hoped himself, poor fellow! He said he had just
passed,--was only low down among the _junior optimes_, and not where he
had expected, and had led us to expect, But the squire has never been
at college, and does not understand college terms, and he has been
asking Roger all about it, and Roger has been telling him, and it has
made him so angry. But the squire hates college slang;--he has never
been there, you know; and he thought poor Osborne was taking it too
lightly, and he has been asking Roger about it, and Roger----'

There was a fresh fit of the sobbing crying. Molly burst out,--

'I don't think Mr. Roger should have told; he had no need to begin so
soon about his brother's failure. Why, he hasn't been in the house an
hour!'

'Hush, hush, love!' said Mrs. Hamley. 'Roger is so good. You don't
understand. The squire would begin and ask questions before Roger had
tasted food--as soon as ever we had got into the dining-room. And all
he said--to me, at any rate--was that Osborne was nervous, and that if
he could only have gone in for the Chancellor's medals, he would have
carried all before him. But Roger said that after failing like this, he
is not very likely to get a fellowship, which the squire had placed his
hopes on. Osborne himself seemed so sure of it, that the squire can't
understand it, and is seriously angry, and growing more so the more he
talks about it. He has kept it in two or three days, and that never
suits him. He is always better when he is angry about a thing at once,
and does not let it smoulder in his mind. Poor, poor Osborne! I did
wish he had been coming straight home, instead of going to these
friends of his; I thought I could have comforted him. But now I'm glad,
for it will be better to let his father's anger cool first.'

So talking out what was in her heart, Mrs. Hamley became more composed;
and at length she dismissed Molly to dress for dinner, with a kiss,
saying,--

'You're a real blessing to mothers, child! You give one such pleasant
sympathy, both in one's gladness and in one's sorrow; in one's pride
(for I was so proud last week, so confident), and in one's
disappointment. And now your being a fourth at dinner will keep us off
that sore subject; there are times when a stranger in the household is
a wonderful help.'

Molly thought over all that she had heard, as she was dressing and
putting on the terrible, over-smart plaid gown in honour of the new
arrival. Her unconscious fealty to Osborne was not in the least shaken
by his having come to grief at Cambridge. Only she was indignant--with
or without reason--against Roger, who seemed to have brought the
reality of bad news as an offering of first-fruits on his return home.

She went down into the drawing-room with anything but a welcome to him
in her heart. He was standing by his mother; the squire had not yet made
his appearance. Molly thought that the two were hand in hand when she
first opened the door, but she could not be quite sure. Mrs. Hamley came
a little forwards to meet her, and introduced her in so fondly intimate
a way to her son, that Molly, innocent and simple, knowing nothing but
Hollingford manners, which were anything but formal, half put out her
hand to shake hands with one of whom she had heard so much--the son of
such kind friends. She could only hope he had not seen the movement, for
he made no attempt to respond to it; only bowed.

He was a tall powerfully-made young man, giving the impression of
strength more than elegance. His face was rather square, ruddy-coloured
(as his father had said), hair and eyes brown--the latter rather deep-
set beneath his thick eyebrows; and he had a trick of wrinkling up his
eyelids when he wanted particularly to observe anything, which made his
eyes look even smaller still at such times. He had a large mouth, with
excessively mobile lips; and another trick of his was, that when he was
amused at anything, he resisted the impulse to laugh, by a droll manner
of twitching and puckering up his mouth, till at length the sense of
humour had its way, and his features relaxed, and he broke into a broad
sunny smile; his beautiful teeth--his only beautiful feature--breaking
out with a white gleam upon the red-brown countenance. These two tricks
of his--of crumpling up the eyelids, so as to concentrate the power of
sight, which made him look stern and thoughtful; and the odd twitching
of the lips, which was preliminary to a smile, which made him look
intensely merry--gave the varying expressions of his face a greater
range 'from grave to gay, from lively to severe,' than is common to
most men. To Molly, who was not finely discriminative in her glances at
the stranger this first night, he simply appeared 'heavy-looking,
clumsy,' and 'a person she was sure she should never get on with.' He
certainly did not seem to care much what impression he made upon his
mother's visitor. He was at that age when young men admire a formed
beauty more than a face with any amount of future capability of
loveliness, and when they are morbidly conscious of the difficulty of
finding subjects of conversation in talking to girls in a state of
feminine hobbledehoyhood. Besides, his thoughts were full of other
subjects, which he did not intend to allow to ooze out in words, yet he
wanted to prevent any of that heavy silence which he feared might be
impending--with an angry and displeased father, and a timorous and
distressed mother. He only looked upon Molly as a badly-dressed, and
rather awkward girl, with black hair and an intelligent face, who might
help him in the task he had set himself of keeping up a bright general
conversation during the rest of the evening; might help him--if she
would, but she would not. She thought him unfeeling in his
talkativeness; his constant flow of words upon indifferent subjects was
a wonder and a repulsion to her. How could he go on so cheerfully while
his mother sate there, scarcely eating anything, and doing her best,
with ill success, to swallow down the tears that would keep rising to
her eyes; when his father's heavy brow was deeply clouded, and he
evidently cared nothing--at first at least--for all the chatter his son
poured forth? Had Mr. Roger Hamley no sympathy in him? She would show
that she had, at any rate. So she quite declined the part, which he had
hoped she would have taken, of respondent, and possible questioner; and
his work became more and more like that of a man walking in a quagmire.
Once the squire roused himself to speak to the butler; he felt the need
of outward stimulus--of a better vintage than usual.

'Bring up a bottle of the Burgundy with the yellow seal.'

He spoke low; he had no spirit to speak in his usual voice. The butler
answered in the same tone. Molly sitting near them, and silent herself,
heard what they said.

'If you please, sir, there are not above six bottles of that seal left;
and it is Mr. Osborne's favourite wine.'

The squire turned round with a growl in his voice.

'Bring up a bottle of the Burgundy with the yellow seal, as I said.'

The butler went away, wondering. 'Mr. Osborne's' likes and dislikes had
been the law of the house in general until now. If he had liked any
particular food or drink, any seat or place, any special degree of
warmth or coolness, his wishes were to be attended to; for he was the
heir, and he was delicate, and he was the clever one of the family. All
the out-of-doors men would have said the same; Mr Osborne wished a tree
cut down, or kept standing, or had such-and-such a fancy about the
game; or had desired something unusual about the horses; and they had
all to attend to it as if it were law. But to-day the Burgundy with the
yellow seal was to be brought; and it was brought. Molly testified with
quiet vehemence of action; she never took wine, so she need not have
been afraid of the man's pouring it into her glass; but as an open mark
of fealty to the absent Osborne, however little it might be understood,
she placed the palm of her small brown hand over the top of the glass,
and held it there, till the wine had gone round, and Roger and his
father were in full enjoyment of the same.

After dinner, too, the gentlemen lingered long over their dessert, and
Molly heard them laughing; and then she saw them loitering about in the
twilight out-of-doors; Roger hatless, his hands in his pockets,
lounging by his father's side, who was now able to talk in his usual
loud and cheerful way, forgetting Osborne. _Voe, victis!_

And so in mute opposition on Molly's side, in polite indifference,
scarcely verging on kindliness on his, Roger and she steered clear of
each other. He had many occupations in which he needed no
companionship, even if she had been qualified to give it. The worst
was, that she found he was in the habit of occupying the library, her
favourite retreat, in the mornings before Mrs. Hamley came down. She
opened the half-closed door a day or two after his return home, and
found him busy among books and papers, with which the large leather-
covered table was strewn; and she softly withdrew before he could turn
his head and see her, so as to distinguish her from one of the
housemaids. He rode out every day, sometimes with his father about the
outlying fields, sometimes far away for a good gallop. Molly would have
enjoyed accompanying him on these occasions, for she was very fond of
riding; and there had been some talk of sending for her habit and grey
pony when first she came to Hamley; only the squire, after some
consideration, had said he so rarely did more than go slowly from one
field to another, where his labourers were at work, that he feared she
would find such slow work--ten minutes riding through heavy land,
twenty minutes sitting still on horseback, listening to the directions
he should have to give to his men--rather dull. Now, when if she had
had her pony here she might have ridden out with Roger, without giving
him any trouble--she would have taken care of that--nobody seemed to
think of renewing the proposal. Altogether it was pleasanter before he
came home.

Her father came over pretty frequently; sometimes there were long
unaccountable absences, it was true; when his daughter began to fidget
after him, and to wonder what had become of him. But when he made his
appearance he had always good reasons to give; and the right she felt
that she had to his familiar household tenderness; the power she
possessed of fully understanding the exact value of both his words and
his silence, made these glimpses of intercourse with him inexpressibly
charming. Latterly her burden had always been, 'When may I come home,
papa?' It was not that she was unhappy, or uncomfortable; she was
passionately fond of Mrs. Hamley, she was a favourite of the squire's,
and could not as yet fully understand why some people were so much
afraid of him; and as for Roger, if he did not add to her pleasure, he
scarcely took away from it. But she wanted to be at home once more. The
reason why she could not tell; but this she knew full well. Mr. Gibson
reasoned with her till she was weary of being completely convinced that
it was right and necessary for her to stay where she was. And then with
an effort she stopped the cry upon her tongue, for she saw that its
repetition harassed her father.

During this absence of hers Mr. Gibson was drifting into matrimony. He
was partly aware of whither he was going; and partly it was like the
soft floating movement of a dream. He was more passive than active in
the affair; though, if his reason had not fully approved of the step he
was tending to--if he had not believed that a second marriage was the
very best way of cutting the Gordian knot of domestic difficulties, he
could have made an effort without any great trouble to himself, and
extricated himself without pain from the mesh of circumstances. It
happened in this manner:--

Lady Cumnor having married her two eldest daughters, found her labours
as a chaperone to Lady Harriet, the youngest, considerably lightened by
co-operation; and, at length, she had leisure to be an invalid. She
was, however, too energetic to allow herself this indulgence
constantly; only she permitted herself to break down occasionally after
a long course of dinners, late hours, and London atmosphere: and then,
leaving Lady Harriet with either Lady Cuxhaven or Lady Agnes Manners,
she betook herself to the comparative quiet of the Towers, where she
found occupation in doing her benevolence, which was sadly neglected in
the hurly-burly of London. This particular summer she had broken down
earlier than usual, and longed for the repose of the country. She
believed that her state of health, too, was more serious than
previously; but she did not say a word of this to her husband or
daughters; reserving her confidence for Mr. Gibson's cars. She did not
wish to take Lady Harriet away from the gaieties of town which she was
thoroughly enjoying, by any complaint of hers, which might, after all,
be ill-founded; and yet she did not quite like being without a
companion in the three weeks or a month that might intervene before her
family would join her at the Towers, especially as the annual festivity
to the school visitors was impending; and both the school and the visit
of the ladies connected with it, had rather lost the zest of novelty.

'Thursday, the 19th, Harriet,' said Lady Cumnor meditatively; 'what do
you say to coming down to the Towers on the 18th, and helping me over
that long day; you could stay in the country till Monday, and have a
few days' rest and good air; you would return a great deal fresher to
the remainder of your gaieties. Your father would bring you down, I
know: indeed, he is coming naturally.'

'Oh, mammal' said Lady Harriet, the youngest daughter of the house--the
prettiest, the most indulged; 'I cannot go; there is the water-party up
to Maidenhead on the 20th, I should be so sorry to miss it: and Mrs.
Duncan's ball, and Grisi's concert; please, don't want me. Besides, I
should do no good. I can't make provincial small-talk; I'm not up in
the local politics of Hollingford. I should be making mischief, I know
I should.'

'Very well, my dear,' said Lady Cumnor, sighing, 'I had forgotten the
Maidenhead water-party, or I would not have asked you.'

'What a pity it isn't the Eton holidays, so that you could have had
Hollingford's boys to help you to do the honours, mamma. They are such
affable little prigs. It was the greatest fun to watch them last year
at Sir Edward's, doing the honours of their grandfather's house to much
such a collection of humble admirers as you get together at the Towers.
I shall never forget seeing Edgar gravely squiring about an old lady in
a portentous black bonnet, and giving her information in the correctest
grammar possible.'

'Well, I like those lads,' said Lady Cuxhaven; 'they are on the way to
become true gentlemen. But, mamma, why shouldn't you have Clare to stay
with you? You like her, and she is just the person to save you the
troubles of hospitality to the Hollingford people, and we should all be
so much more comfortable if we knew you had her with you.'

'Yes, Clare would do very well,' said Lady Cumnor; 'but is not it her
school-time or something? We must not interfere with her school so as
to injure her, for I am afraid she is not doing too well as it is; and
she has been so very unlucky ever since she left us--first her husband
died, and then she lost Lady Davies' situation, and then Mrs. Maude's,
and now Mr. Preston told your father it was all she could do to pay her
way in Ashcombe, though Lord Cumnor lets her have the house rent-free.'

'I can't think how it is,' said Lady Harriet. 'She's not very wise,
certainly; but she is so useful and agreeable, and has such pleasant
manners. I should have thought any one who wasn't particular about
education would have been charmed to keep her as a governess.'

'What do you mean by not being particular about education? Most people
who keep governesses for their children are supposed to be particular,'
said Lady Cuxhaven.

'Well, they think themselves so, I've no doubt; but I call you
particular, Mary, and I don't think mamma was; but she thought herself
so, I am sure.'

'I can't think what you mean, Harriet,' said Lady Cumnor, a good deal
annoyed at this speech of her clever, heedless, youngest daughter.

'Oh dear, mamma, you did everything you could think of for us; but you
see you'd ever so many other engrossing interests, and Mary hardly ever
allows her love for her husband to interfere with her all-absorbing
care for the children. You gave us the best of masters in every
department, and Clare to dragonize and keep us up to our preparation
for these masters, as well as ever she could; but then you know, or
rather you didn't know, some of the masters admired our very pretty
governess, and there was a kind of respectable veiled flirtation going
on, which never came to anything, to be sure; and then you were often
so overwhelmed with your business as a great lady--fashionable and
benevolent, and all that sort of thing--that you used to call Clare
away from us at the most critical times of our lessons, to write your
notes, or add up your accounts, and the consequence is, that I'm about
the most ill-informed girl in London. Only Mary was so capitally
trained by good awkward Miss Benson, that she is always full to
overflowing with accurate knowledge, and her glory is reflected upon
me.'

'Do you think what Harriet says is true, Mary?' asked Lady Cumnor,
rather anxiously.

'I was so little with Clare in the schoolroom. I used to read French
with her; she had a beautiful accent, I remember. Both Agnes and
Harriet were very fond of her. I used to be jealous for Miss Benson's
sake, and perhaps--' Lady Cuxhaven paused a minute--'that made me fancy
that she had a way of flattering and indulging them--not quite
conscientious, I used to think. But girls are severe judges, and
certainly she has had an anxious enough life since. I am always so glad
when we can have her, and give her a little pleasure. The only thing
that makes me uneasy now is the way in which she seems to send her
daughter away from her so much; we never can persuade her to bring
Cynthia with her when she comes to see us.'

'Now that I call ill-natured,' said Lady Harriet; 'here is a poor dear
woman trying to earn her livelihood, first as a governess, and what
could she do with her daughter then, but send her to school? and after
that, when Clare is asked to go visiting, and is too modest to bring
her girl with her--besides all the expense of the journey, and the
rigging out--Mary finds fault with her for her modesty and economy.'

'Well, after all, we are not discussing Clare and her affairs, but
trying to plan for mamma's comfort. I don't see that she can do better
than ask Mrs. Kirkpatrick to come to the Towers--as soon as her
holidays begin, I mean.'

'Here is her last letter,' said Lady Cumnor, who had been searching for
it in her escritoire, while her daughters were talking. Holding her
glasses before her eyes, she began to read, '"My wonted misfortunes
appear to have followed me to Ashcombe"--um, um, um; that's not it--
"Mr. Preston is most kind in sending me fruit and flowers from the
Manor-house, according to dear Lord Cumnor's kind injunctions." Oh,
here it is! "The vacation begins on the 11th, according to the usual
custom of schools in Ashcombe; and I must then try and obtain some
change of air and scene, in order to fit myself for the resumption of
my duties on the 10th of August." You see, girls, she would be at
liberty, if she has not made any other arrangement for spending her
holidays. To-day is the 15th.'

'I'll write to her at once, mamma,' Lady Harriet said. 'Clare and I are
always great friends; I was her confidant in her loves with poor Mr.
Kirkpatrick, and we've kept up our intimacy ever since. I know of three
offers she had besides.'

'I sincerely hope Miss Bowes is not telling her love-affairs to Grace
or Lily. Why, Harriet, you could not have been older than Grace when
Clare was married!' said Lady Cuxhaven in maternal alarm.

'No; but I was well versed in the tender passion, thanks to novels. Now
I dare say you don't admit novels into your school-room, Mary; so your
daughters wouldn't be able to administer discreet sympathy to their
governess in case she was the heroine of a love-affair.'

'My dear Harriet, don't let me hear you talking of love in that way; it
is not pretty. Love is a serious thing.'

'My dear mamma, your exhortations are just eighteen years too late.
I've talked all the freshness off love, and that's the reason I'm tired
of the subject.'

This last speech referred to a recent refusal of lady Harriet's, which
had displeased Lady Cumnor, and rather annoyed my lord; as they, the
parents, could see no objection to the gentleman in question. Lady
Cuxhaven did not want to have the subject brought up, so she hastened
to say,--

'Do ask the poor little daughter to come with her mother to the Towers;
why, she must be seventeen or more; she would really be a companion to
you, mamma, if her mother was unable to come,' said Lady Cuxhaven.

'I was not ten when Clare married, and I'm nearly nine-and-twenty,'
added Lady Harriet.

'Don't speak of it, Harriet; at any rate you are but eight-and-twenty
now, and you look a great deal younger. There is no need to be always
bringing up your age on every possible occasion.'

'There was need of it now, though. I wanted to make out how old Cynthia
Kirkpatrick was. I think she can't be far from eighteen.'

'She is at school at Boulogne, I know; and so I don't think she can be
as old as that. Clare says something about her in this letter: "Under
these circumstances" (the ill-success of her school), "I cannot think
myself justified in allowing myself the pleasure of having darling
Cynthia at home for the holidays; especially as the period when the
vacation in French schools commences differs from that common in
England; and it might occasion some confusion in my arrangements if
darling Cynthia were to come to Ashcombe, and occupy my time and
thoughts so immediately before the commencement of my scholastic duties
as the 8th of August, on which day her vacation begins, which is but
two days before my holidays end." So, you see, Clare would be quite at
liberty to come to me, and I dare say it would be a very nice change
for her.'

'And Hollingford is busy seeing after his new laboratory at the Towers,
and is constantly backwards and forwards. And Agnes wants to go there
for change of air, as soon as she is strong enough after her
confinement. And even my own dear insatiable "me" will have had enough
of gaiety in two or three weeks, if this hot weather lasts.'

'I think I may be able to come down for a few days too, if you will let
me, mamma; and I'll bring Grace, who is looking rather pale and weedy;
growing too fast, I am afraid. So I hope you won't be dull.'

'My dear,' said Lady Cumnor, drawing herself up, 'I should be ashamed
of feeling dull with my resources; my duties to others and to myself!'

So the plan in its present shape was told to Lord Cumnor, who highly
approved of it; as he always did of every project of his wife's. Lady
Cumnor's character was perhaps a little too ponderous for him in
reality, but he was always full of admiration for all her words and
deeds, and used to boast of her wisdom, her benevolence, her power and
dignity, in her absence, as if by this means he could buttress up his
own more feeble nature.

'Very good--very good, indeed! Clare to join you at the Towers!
Capital! I could not have planned it better myself! I shall go down
with you on Wednesday in time for the jollification on Thursday. I
always enjoy that day; they are such nice, friendly people, those good
Hollingford ladies. Then I'll have a day with Sheepshanks, and perhaps
I may ride over to Ashcombe and see Preston--Brown Jess can do it in a
day, eighteen miles--to be sure! But there's back again to the Towers!
how much is twice eighteen--thirty?'

'Thirty-six,' said Lady Cumnor, sharply.

'So it is; you're always right, my dear. Preston's a clever, sharp
fellow.'

'I don't like him,' said my lady.

'He takes looking after; but he's a sharp fellow. He's such a good-
looking man, too, I wonder you don't like him.'

'I never think whether a land-agent is handsome or not. They don't
belong to the class of people whose appearance I notice.'

'To be sure not. But he is a handsome fellow; and what should make you
like him is the interest he takes in Clare and her prospects. He is
constantly suggesting something that can be done to her house, and I
know he sends her fruit, and flowers, and game just as regularly as we
should ourselves if we lived at Ashcombe.'

'How old is he?' said Lady Cumnor, with a faint suspicion of motives in
her mind.

'About twenty-seven, I think. Ah! I see what is in your ladyship's
head. No! no! he's too young for that. You must look out for some
middle-aged man, if you want to get poor Clare married; Preston won't
do.'

'I'm not a match-maker, as you might know. I never did it for my own
daughters. I'm not likely to do it for Clare,' said she, leaning back
languidly.

'Well! you might do a worse thing. I'm beginning to think she'll never
get on as a schoolmistress, though why she should not, I'm sure I don't
know; for she's an uncommonly pretty woman for her age, and her having
lived in our family, and your having had her so often with you, ought
to go a good way. I say, my lady, what do you think of Gibson? He would
be just the right age--widower--lives near the Towers.'

'I told you just now I was no match-maker, my lord. I suppose we had
better go by the old road--the people at those inns know us?'

And so they passed on to speaking about other things than Mrs
Kirkpatrick and her prospects, scholastic or matrimonial.




CHAPTER IX

THE WIDOWER AND THE WIDOW


Mrs. Kirkpatrick was only too happy to accept Lady Cumnor's invitation.
It was what she had been hoping for, but hardly daring to expect, as
she believed that the family were settled in London for some time to
come. The Towers was a pleasant and luxurious house in which to pass
her holidays; and though she was not one to make deep plans, or to look
far ahead, she was quite aware of the prestige which her being able to
say she had been staying with 'dear Lady Cumnor' at the Towers, was
likely to give her and her school in the eyes of a good many people; so
she gladly prepared to join her ladyship on the 17th. Her wardrobe did
not require much arrangement; if it had done, the poor lady would not
have had much money to appropriate to the purpose. She was very pretty
and graceful; and that goes a great way towards carrying off shabby
clothes; and it was her taste, more than any depth of feeling, that had
made her persevere in wearing all the delicate tints--the violets and
greys--which, with a certain admixture of black, constitute half-
mourning. This style of becoming dress she was supposed to wear in
memory of Mr. Kirkpatrick; in reality because it was both lady-like and
economical. Her beautiful hair was of that rich auburn that hardly ever
turns grey; and partly out of consciousness of its beauty, and partly
because the washing of caps is expensive, she did not wear anything on
her head; her complexion had the vivid tints that often accompany the
kind of hair which has once been red; and the only injury her skin had
received from advancing years was that the colouring was rather more
brilliant than delicate, and varied less with every passing emotion.
She could no longer blush; and at eighteen she had been very proud of
her blushes. Her eyes were soft, large, and china-blue in colour; they
had not much expression or shadow about them, which was perhaps owing
to the flaxen colour of her eyelashes. Her figure was a little fuller
than it used to be, but her movements were as soft and sinuous as ever.
Altogether, she looked much younger than her age, which was not far
short of forty. She had a very pleasant voice, and read aloud well and
distinctly, which Lady Cumnor liked. Indeed, for some inexplicable
reason, she was a greater; more positive favourite with Lady Cumnor
than with any of the rest of the family, though they all liked her up
to a certain point, and found it agreeably useful to have any one in
the house who was so well acquainted with their ways and habits; so
ready to talk, when a little trickle of conversation was required; so
willing to listen, and to listen with tolerable intelligence, if the
subjects spoken about did not refer to serious solid literature, or
science, or politics, or social economy. About novels and poetry,
travels and gossip, personal details, or anecdotes of any kind, she
always made exactly the remarks which are expected from an agreeable
listener; and she had sense enough to confine herself to those short
expressions of wonder, admiration, and astonishment, which may mean
anything, when more recondite things were talked about.

It was a very pleasant change to a poor unsuccessful schoolmistress to
leave her own house, full of battered and shabby furniture (she had
taken the goodwill and furniture of her predecessor at a valuation, two
or three years before), where the look-out was as gloomy, and the
surrounding as squalid, as is often the case in the smaller streets of
a country town, and to come bowling through the Towers Park in the
luxurious carriage sent to meet her; to alight, and feel secure that
the well-trained servants would see after her bags and umbrella, and
parasol, and cloak, without her loading herself with all these portable
articles, as she had had to do while following the wheel-barrow
containing her luggage in going to the Ashcombe coach-office that
morning; to pass up the deep-piled carpets of the broad shallow stairs
into my lady's own room, cool and deliciously fresh, even on this
sultry day, and fragrant with great bowls of freshly gathered roses of
every shade of colour. There were two or three new novels lying uncut
on the table; the daily papers, the magazines. Every chair was an easy-
chair of some kind or other; and all covered with French chintz that
mimicked the real flowers in the garden below. She was familiar with
the bedroom called hers, to which she was soon ushered by Lady Cumnor's
maid. It seemed to her far more like home than the dingy place she had
left that morning; it was so natural to her to like dainty draperies
and harmonious colouring, and fine linen and soft raiment. She sate
down on the arm-chair by the bed-side, and wondered over her fate
something in this fashion,--

'One would think it was an easy enough thing to deck a looking-glass
like that with muslin and pink ribbons; and yet how hard it is to keep
it up! People don't know how hard it is till they've tried as I have. I
made my own glass just as pretty when I first went to Ashcombe; but the
muslin got dirty, and the pink ribbons faded, and it is so difficult to
earn money to renew them; and when one has got the money one hasn't the
heart to spend it all at once. One thinks and one thinks how one can
get the most good out of it; and a new gown, or a day's pleasure, or
some hot-house fruit, or some piece of elegance that can be seen and
noticed in one's drawing-room, carries the day, and good-by to prettily
decked looking-glasses. Now here, money is like the air they breathe.
No one ever asks or knows how much the washing costs, or what pink
ribbon is a yard. Ah! it would be different if they had to earn every
penny as I have! They would have to calculate, like me, how to get the
most pleasure out of it. I wonder if I am to go on all my life toiling
and moiling for money? It's not natural. Marriage is the natural thing;
then the husband has all that kind of dirty work to do, and his wife
sits in the drawing-room like a lady. I did, when poor Kirkpatrick was
alive. Heigho! it's a sad thing to be a widow.'

Then there was the contrast between the dinners which she had to share
with her scholars at Ashcombe--rounds of beef, legs of mutton, great
dishes of potatoes, and large barter-puddings, with the tiny meal of
exquisitely cooked delicacies, sent up on old Chelsea china, that was
served every day to the earl and countess and herself at the Towers.
She dreaded the end of her holidays as much as the most home-loving of
her pupils. But at this time that end was some weeks off, so Clare shut
her eyes to the future, and tried to relish the present to its fullest
extent. A disturbance to the pleasant, even course of the summer days
came in the indisposition of Lady Cumnor. Her husband had gone back to
London, and she and Mrs. Kirkpatrick had been left to the very even
tenor of life, which was according to my lady's wish just now. In spite
of her languor and fatigue, she had gone through the day when the
school visitors came to the Towers, in full dignity, dictating clearly
all that was to be done, what walks were to be taken, what hothouses to
be seen, and when the party were to return to the 'collation.' She
herself remained indoors, with one or two ladies who had ventured to
think that the fatigue or the heat might be too much for them, and who
had therefore declined accompanying the ladies in charge of Mrs.
Kirkpatrick, or those other favoured few to whom Lord Cumnor was
explaining the new buildings in his farm-yard. 'With the utmost
condescension,' as her hearers afterwards expressed it, Lady Cumnor
told them all about her married daughters' establishments, nurseries,
plans for the education of their children, and manner of passing the
day. But the exertion tired her; and when every one had left, the
probability is that she would have gone to lie down and rest, had not
her husband made an unlucky remark in the kindness of his heart. He
came up to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

'I'm afraid you're sadly tired, my lady?' he said.

She braced her muscles, and drew herself up, saying coldly,--

'When I am tired, Lord Cumnor, I will tell you so.' And her own fatigue
showed itself during the rest of the evening in her sitting
particularly upright, and declining all offers of easy-chairs or
footstools, and refusing the insult of a suggestion that they should
all go to bed earlier. She went on in something of this kind of manner
as long as Lord Cumnor remained at the Towers. Mrs Kirkpatrick was
quite deceived by it, and kept assuring Lord Cumnor that she had never
seen dear Lady Cumnor looking better, or so strong and well. But he had
an affectionate heart, if a blundering head; and though he could give
no reason for his belief, he was almost certain his wife was not well.
Yet he was too much afraid of her to send for Mr. Gibson without her
permission. His last words to Clare were,--

'It's such a comfort to leave my lady to you; only don't you be deluded
by her ways. She'll not show she's ill till she can't help it. Consult
with Bradley,' (Lady Cumnor's 'own woman,'--she disliked the new-
fangledness of 'lady's-maid,') 'and if I were you, I'd send and ask
Gibson to call--you might make any kind of a pretence,'--and then the
idea he had had in London of the fitness of a match between the two
coming into his head just now, he could not help adding,--'Get him to
come and see you, he's a very agreeable man; Lord Hollingford says
there's no one like him in these parts: and he might be looking at my
lady while he was talking to you, and see if he thinks her really ill.
And let me know what he says about her.'

But Clare was just as great a coward about doing anything for Lady
Cumnor which she had not expressly ordered, as Lord Cumnor himself. She
knew she might fall into such disgrace if she sent for Mr. Gibson
without direct permission, that she might never be asked to stay at the
Towers again; and the life there, monotonous in its smoothness of
luxury as it might be to some, was exactly to her taste. She in her
turn tried to put upon Bradley the duty which Lord Cumnor had put upon
her.

'Mrs. Bradley,' she said one day, 'are you quite comfortable about my
lady's health? Lord Cumnor fancied that she was looking worn and ill?'

'Indeed, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I don't think my lady is herself. I can't
persuade myself as she is, though if you was to question me till night
I couldn't tell you why.'

'Don't you think you could make some errand to Hollingford, and see Mr.
Gibson, and ask him to come round this way some day, and make a call on
Lady Cumnor?'

'It would be as much as my place is worth, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. Till my
lady's dying day, if Providence keeps her in her senses, she'll have
everything done her own way, or not at all. There's only Lady Harriet
that can manage her at all, and she not always.'

'Well, then--we must hope that there is nothing the matter with her;
and I dare say there is not. She says there is not, and she ought to
know best herself.'

But a day or two after this conversation took place, Lady Cumnor
startled Mrs. Kirkpatrick, by saying suddenly,--

'Clare, I wish you'd write a note to Mr. Gibson, saying, I should like
to see him this afternoon. I thought he would have called of himself
before now. He ought to have done so, to pay his respects.'

Mr. Gibson had been far too busy in his profession to have time for
mere visits of ceremony, though he knew quite well he was neglecting
what was expected of him. But the district of which he may be said to
have had medical charge was full of a bad kind of low fever, which took
up all his time and thought, and often made him very thankful that
Molly was out of the way in the quiet shades of Hamley.

His domestic 'raws' had not healed over in the least, though he was
obliged to put the perplexities on one side for the time. The last
drop--the final straw, had been an impromptu visit of Lord
Hollingford's, whom he had met in the town one forenoon. They had had a
good deal to say to each other about some new scientific discovery,
with the details of which Lord Hollingford was well acquainted, while
Mr. Gibson was ignorant and deeply interested. At length Lord
Hollingford said suddenly,--

'Gibson, I wonder if you'd give me some lunch; I've been a good deal
about since my seven-o'clock breakfast, and am getting quite ravenous.'

Now Mr. Gibson was only too much pleased to show hospitality to one
whom he liked and respected so much as Lord Hollingford, and he gladly
took him home with him to the early family dinner. But it was just at
the time when the cook was sulking at Bethia's dismissal--and she chose
to be unpunctual and careless. There was no successor to Bethia as yet
appointed to wait at the meals. So, though Mr. Gibson knew well that
bread-and-cheese, cold beef, or the simplest food available, would have
been welcome to the hungry lord, he could not get either these things
for luncheon, or even the family dinner, at anything like the proper
time, in spite of all his ringing, and as much anger as he liked to
show, for fear of making Lord Hollingford uncomfortable. At last dinner
was ready, but the poor host saw the want of nicety--almost the want of
cleanliness, in all its accompaniments--dingy plate, dull-looking
glass, a tablecloth that, if not absolutely dirty, was anything but
fresh in its splashed and rumpled condition, and compared it in his own
mind with the dainty delicacy with which even a loaf of brown bread was
served up at his guest's home. He did not apologize directly, but,
after dinner, just as they were parting, he said,--

'You see a man like me--a widower--with a daughter who cannot always be
at home--has not the regulated household which would enable me to
command the small portions of time I can spend there.'

He made no allusion to the comfortless meal of which they had both
partaken, though it was full in his mind. Nor was it absent from Lord
Hollingford's, as he made reply,--

'True, true. Yet a man like you ought to be free from any thought of
household cares. You ought to have somebody. How old is Miss Gibson?'

'Seventeen. It's a very awkward age for a motherless girl.'

'Yes; very. I have only boys, but it must be very awkward with a girl.
Excuse me, Gibson, but we're talking like friends. Have you never
thought of marrying again? It would not be like a first marriage, of
course; but if you found a sensible agreeable woman of thirty or so, I
really think you couldn't do better than take her to manage your home,
and so save you either discomfort or worry; and, besides, she would be
able to give your daughter that kind of tender supervision which, I
fancy, all girls of that age require. It's a delicate subject, but
you'll excuse my having spoken frankly.'

Mr. Gibson had thought of this advice several times since it was given;
but it was a case of 'first catch your hare.' Where was the 'sensible
and agreeable woman of thirty or so?' Not Miss Browning, nor Miss
Phoebe, nor Miss Goodenough. Among his country patients there were two
classes pretty distinctly marked: farmers, whose children were
unrefined and uneducated; squires, whose daughters would, indeed think
the world was coming to a pretty pass, if they were to marry a country
surgeon.

But the first day on which Mr. Gibson paid his visit to Lady Cumnor, he
began to think it possible that Mrs. Kirkpatrick was his 'hare.' He
rode away with slack rein, thinking over what he knew of her, more than
about the prescriptions he should write, or the way he was going. He
remembered her as a very pretty Miss Clare: the governess who had the
scarlet fever; that was in his wife's days, a long time ago; he could
hardly understand Mrs. Kirkpatrick's youthfulness of appearance when he
thought how long. Then he heard of her marriage to a curate; and the
next day (or so it seemed, he could not recollect the exact duration of
the interval), of his death. He knew, in some way, that ever since she
had been living as a governess in different families; but that she had
always been a great favourite with the family at the Towers, for whom,
quite independent of their rank, he had a true respect. A year or two
ago he had heard that she had taken the good-will of a school at
Ashcombe; a small town close to another property of Lord Cumnor's, in
the same county. Ashcombe was a larger estate than that near
Hollingford, but the old Manor-house there was not nearly so good a
residence as the Towers; so it was given up to Mr. Preston, the land-
agent, for the Ashcombe property, just as Mr. Sheepshanks was for that
at Hollingford. There were a few rooms at the Manor-house reserved for
the occasional visits of the family, otherwise Mr Preston, a handsome
young bachelor, had it all to himself. Mr. Gibson knew that Mrs.
Kirkpatrick had one child, a daughter, who must be much about the same
age as Molly. Of course she had very little, if any, property. But he
himself had lived carefully, and had a few thousands well invested;
besides which, his professional income was good, and increasing rather
than diminishing every year. By the time he had arrived at this point
in his consideration of the case, he was at the house of the next
patient on his round, and he put away all thought of matrimony and Mrs.
Kirkpatrick for the time. Once again, in the course of the day, he
remembered with a certain pleasure that Molly had told him some little
details connected with her unlucky detention at the Towers five or six
years ago, which had made him feel at the time as if Mrs. Kirkpatrick
had behaved very kindly to his little girl. So there the matter rested
for the present, as far as he was concerned.

Lady Cumnor was out of health; but not so ill as she had been fancying
herself during all those days when the people about her dared not send
for the doctor. It was a great relief to her to have Mr. Gibson to
decide for her what she was to do; what to eat, drink, avoid. Such
decisions _ab extra_, are sometimes a wonderful relief to those whose
habit it has been to decide, not only for themselves, but for every one
else; and occasionally the relaxation of the strain which a character
for infallible wisdom brings with it, does much to restore health. Mrs.
Kirkpatrick thought in her secret soul that she had never found it so
easy to get on with Lady Cumnor; and Bradley and she had never done
singing the praises of Mr. Gibson, 'who always managed my lady so
beautifully.'

Reports were duly sent up to my lord, but he and her daughters were
strictly forbidden to come down. Lady Cumnor wished to be weak and
languid, and uncertain both in body and mind, without family
observation. It was a condition so different to anything she had ever
been in before, that she was unconsciously afraid of losing her
prestige, if she was seen in it. Sometimes she herself wrote the daily
bulletins; at other times she bade Clare to do it, but she would always
see the letters. Any answers she received from her daughters she used
to read herself, occasionally imparting some of their contents to 'that
good Clare.' But anybody might read my lord's letters. There was no
great fear of family secrets oozing out in his sprawling lines of
affection. But once Mrs. Kirkpatrick came upon a sentence in a letter
from Lord Cumnor, which she was reading out loud to his wife, that
caught her eye before she came to it, and if she could have skipped it
and kept it for private perusal, she would gladly have done so. My lady
was too sharp for her, though. In her opinion 'Clare was a good
creature, but not clever,' the truth being that she was not always
quick at resources, though tolerably unscrupulous in the use of them.

'Read on. What are you stopping for? There is no bad news, is there,
about Agnes?--Give me the letter.'

Lady Cumnor read, half aloud,--

'"How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to help
on that affair, but I really think a little match-making would be a
very pleasant amusement now that you are shut up in the house; and I
cannot conceive any marriage more suitable."'

'Oh!' said Lady Cumnor, laughing, 'it was awkward for you to come upon
that, Clare: I don't wonder you stopped short. You gave me a terrible
fright, though.'

'Lord Cumnor is so fond of joking,' said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, a little
flurried, yet quite recognizing the truth of his last words,--'I cannot
conceive any marriage more suitable.' She wondered what Lady Cumnor
thought of it. Lord Cumnor wrote as if there was really a chance. It
was not an unpleasant idea; it brought a faint smile out upon her face,
as she sate by Lady Cumnor, while the latter took her afternoon nap.




CHAPTER X

A CRISIS


Mrs. Kirkpatrick had been reading aloud till Lady Cumnor fell asleep,
the book rested on her knee, just kept from falling by her hold. She
was looking out of the window, not seeing the trees in the park, nor
the glimpses of the hills beyond, but thinking how pleasant it would be
to have a husband once more;--some one who would work while she sate at
her elegant ease in a prettily-furnished drawing-room; and she was
rapidly investing this imaginary bread-winner with the form and
features of the country surgeon, when there was a slight tap at the
door, and almost before she could rise, the object of her thoughts came
in. She felt herself blush, and she was not displeased at the
consciousness. She advanced to meet him, making a sign towards her
sleeping ladyship.

'Very good,' said he, in a low voice, casting a professional eye on the
slumbering figure; 'can I speak to you for a minute or two in the
library?'

'Is he going to offer?' thought she, with a sudden palpitation, and a
conviction of her willingness to accept a man whom an hour before she
had simply looked upon as one of the category of unmarried men to whom
matrimony was possible.

He was only going to make one or two medical inquiries; she found that
out very speedily, and considered the conversation as rather flat to
her, though it might be instructive to him. She was not aware that he
finally made up his mind to propose, during the time that she was
speaking--answering his questions in many words, but he was accustomed
to winnow the chaff from the corn; and her voice was so soft, her
accent so pleasant, that it struck him as particularly agreeable after
the broad country accent he was perpetually hearing. Then the
harmonious colours of her dress, and her slow and graceful movements,
had something of the same soothing effect upon his nerves that a cat's
purring has upon some people's. He began to think that he should be
fortunate if he could win her, for his own sake. Yesterday he had
looked upon her more as a possible stepmother for Molly; to-day he
thought more of her as a wife for himself. The remembrance of Lord
Cumnor's letter gave her a very becoming consciousness; she wished to
attract, and hoped that she was succeeding. Still they only talked of
the countess's state for some time; then a lucky shower came on. Mr.
Gibson did not care a jot for rain, but just now it gave him an excuse
for lingering.

'It is very stormy weather,' said he.

'Yes, very. My daughter writes me word, that for two days last week the
packet could not sail from Boulogne.'

'Miss Kirkpatrick is at Boulogne, is she?'

'Yes, poor girl; she is at school there, trying to perfect herself in
the French language. But, Mr. Gibson, you must not call her Miss
Kirkpatrick. Cynthia remembers you with so much--affection, I may say.
She was your little patient when she had the measles here four years
ago, you know. Pray call her Cynthia; she would be quite hurt at such a
formal name as Miss Kirkpatrick from you.'

'Cynthia seems to me such an out-of-the-way name, only fit for poetry,
not for daily use.'

'It is mine,' said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a plaintive tone of reproach.
'I was christened Hyacinth, and her poor father would have called her
after me. I'm sorry you don't like it.'

Mr. Gibson did not know what to say. He was not quite prepared to
plunge into the directly personal style. While he was hesitating, she
went on,--

'Hyacinth Clare! Once upon a time I was quite proud of my pretty name;
and other people thought it pretty, too.'

'I've no doubt--' Mr. Gibson began; and then stopped.

'Perhaps I did wrong in yielding to his wish, to have her called by
such a romantic name. It may excite prejudice against her in some
people; and, poor child! she will have enough to struggle with. A young
daughter is a great charge, Mr. Gibson, especially when there is only
one parent to look after her.'

'You are quite right,' said he, recalled to the remembrance of Molly;
'though I should have thought that a girl who is so fortunate as to
have a mother could not feel the loss of her father so acutely as one
who is motherless must suffer from her deprivation.'

'You are thinking of your own daughter. It was careless of me to say
what I did. Dear child! how well I remember her sweet little face as
she lay sleeping on my bed. I suppose she is nearly grown-up now. She
must be near my Cynthia's age. How I should like to see her!'

'I hope you will. I should like you to see her. I should like you to
love my poor little Molly,--to love her as your own--' He swallowed
down something that rose in his throat, and was nearly choking him.

'Is he going to offer? _Is_ he?' she wondered; and she began to tremble
in the suspense before he next spoke.

'Could you love her as your daughter? Will you try? Will you give me
the right of introducing you to her as her future mother; as my wife?'

There! he had done it--whether it was wise or foolish--he had done it;
but he was aware that the question as to its wisdom came into his mind
the instant that the words were said past recall.

She hid her face in her hands.

'Oh! Mr. Gibson,' she said; and then, a little to his surprise, and a
great deal to her own, she burst into hysterical tears: it was such a
wonderful relief to feel that she need not struggle any more for a
livelihood.

'My dear--my dearest,' said he, trying to soothe her with word and
caress; but, just at the moment, uncertain what name he ought to use.
After her sobbing had abated a little, she said herself, as if
understanding his difficulty,--

'Call me Hyacinth--your own Hyacinth. I can't bear "Clare," it does so
remind me of being a governess, and those days are all past now.'

'Yes; but surely no one can have been more valued, more beloved than
you have been in this family at least.'

'Oh, yes! they have been very good. But still one has always had to
remember one's position.'

'We ought to tell Lady Cumnor,' said he, thinking, perhaps, more of the
various duties which lay before him, in consequence of the step he had
just taken, than of what his future bride was saying.

'You'll tell her, won't you?' said she, looking up in his face with
beseeching eyes. 'I always like other people to tell her things, and
then I can see how she takes them.'

'Certainly! I will do whatever you wish. Shall we go and see if she is
awake now?'

'No! I think not. I had better prepare her. You will come to-morrow,
won't you? and you will tell her then.'

'Yes; that will be best. I ought to tell Molly first. She has the right
to know. I do hope you and she will love each other dearly.'

'Oh, yes! I'm sure we shall. Then you'll come to-morrow and tell Lady
Cumnor? And I'll prepare her.'

'I don't see what preparation is necessary; but you know best, my dear.
When can we arrange for you and Molly to meet?'

Just then a servant came in, and the pair started apart.

'Her ladyship is awake, and wishes to see Mr. Gibson.'

They both followed the man upstairs; Mrs. Kirkpatrick trying hard to
look as if nothing had happened, for she particularly wished 'to
prepare' Lady Cumnor; that is to say, to give her version of Mr
Gibson's extreme urgency, and her own coy unwillingness.

But Lady Cumnor had observant eyes in sickness as well as in health.
She had gone to sleep with the recollection of the passage in her
husband's letter full in her mind, and, perhaps, it gave a direction to
her wakening ideas.

'I'm glad you're not gone, Mr. Gibson. I wanted to tell you----What's
the matter with you both? What have you been saying to Clare? I'm sure
something has happened.'

There was nothing for it, in Mr. Gibson's opinion, but to make a clean
breast of it, and tell her ladyship all. He turned round, and took hold
of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's hand, and said out straight, 'I have been asking
Mrs. Kirkpatrick to be my wife, and to be a mother to my child; and she
has consented. I hardly know how to thank her enough in words.'

'Umph! I don't see any objection. I dare say you'll be very happy. I'm
very glad of it! Here! shake hands with me, both of you.' Then laughing
a little, she added, 'It does not seem to me that any exertion has been
required on my part.'

Mr. Gibson looked perplexed at these words. Mrs. Kirkpatrick reddened.
'Did she not tell you? Oh, then, I must. It's too good a joke to be
lost, especially as everything has ended so well. When Lord Cumnor's
letter came this morning--this very morning--I gave it to Clare to read
aloud to me, and I saw she suddenly came to a full stop, where no full
stop could be, and I thought it was something about Agnes, so I took
the letter and read--stay! I'll read the sentence to you. Where's the
letter, Clare? Oh! don't trouble yourself, here it is. "How are Clare
and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to help on that affair,
but I really think a little match-making would be a very pleasant
amusement now that you are shut up in the house; and I cannot conceive
any marriage more suitable." You see, you have my lord's full
approbation. But I must write, and tell him you have managed your own
affairs without any interference of mine. Now we'll just have a little
medical talk, Mr. Gibson, and then you and Clare shall finish your
_tete-a-tete_.'

They were neither of them quite as desirous of further conversation
together as they had been before the passage out of Lord Cumnor's
letter had been read aloud. Mr. Gibson tried not to think about it, for
he was aware that if he dwelt upon it, he might get to fancy all sorts
of things, as to the conversation which had ended in his offer. But
Lady Cumnor was imperious now, as always.

'Come, no nonsense. I always made my girls go and have _tete-a-tetes_
with the men who were to be their husbands, whether they would or no:
there's a great deal to be talked over before every marriage, and you
two are certainly old enough to be above affectation. Go away with
you.' So there was nothing for it but for them to return to the
library; Mrs. Kirkpatrick pouting a little, and Mr. Gibson feeling more
like his own cool, sarcastic self, by many degrees, than he had done
when last in that room.

She began, half crying,--

'I cannot tell what poor Kirkpatrick would say if he knew what I have
done. He did so dislike the notion of second marriages, poor fellow.'

'Let us hope that he does not know, then; or that, if he does know, he
is wiser--I mean, that he sees how second marriages may be most
desirable and expedient in some cases.'

Altogether, this second _tete-a-tete_, done to command, was not so
satisfactory as the first; and Mr. Gibson was quite alive to the
necessity of proceeding on his round to see his patients before very
much time had elapsed.

'We shall shake down into uniformity before long, I've no doubt,' said
he to himself, as he rode away. 'It's hardly to be expected that our
thoughts should run in the same groove all at once. Nor should I like
it,' he added. 'It would be very flat and stagnant to have only an echo
of one's own opinions from one's wife. Heigho! I must tell Molly about
it: dear little woman, I wonder how she'll take it! It's done, in a
great measure, for her good.' And then he lost himself in
recapitulating Mrs. Kirkpatrick's good qualities, and the advantages to
be gained to his daughter from the step he had just taken.

It was too late to go round by Hamley that afternoon. The Towers and
the Towers' round lay just in the opposite direction to Hamley. So it
was the next morning before Mr. Gibson arrived at the hall, timing his
visit as well as he could so as to have half-an-hour's private talk
with Molly before Mrs. Hamley came down into the drawing-room. He
thought that his daughter would require sympathy after receiving the
intelligence he had to communicate; and he knew there was no one more
fit to give it than Mrs. Hamley.

It was a brilliantly hot summer's morning; men in their shirt-sleeves
were in the fields getting in the early harvest of oats; as Mr. Gibson
rode slowly along, he could see them over the tall hedge-rows, and even
hear the soothing measured sound of the fall of the long swathes, as
they were mown. The labourers seemed too hot to talk; the dog, guarding
their coats and cans, lay panting loudly on the other side of the elm,
under which Mr. Gibson stopped for an instant to survey the scene, and
gain a little delay before the interview that he wished was well over.
In another minute he had snapped at himself for his weakness, and put
spurs to his horse. He came up to the hall at a good sharp trot; it was
earlier than the usual time of his visits, and no one was expecting
him; all the stablemen were in the fields, but that signified little to
Mr Gibson; he walked his horse about for five minutes or so before
taking him into the stable, and loosened his girths, examining him with
perhaps unnecessary exactitude. He went into the house by a private
door, and made his way into the drawing-room, half expecting, however,
that Molly would be in the garden. She had been there, but it was too
hot and dazzling now for her to remain out of doors, and she had come
in by the open window of the drawing-room. Oppressed with the heat, she
had fallen asleep in an easy-chair, her bonnet and open book upon her
knee, one arm hanging listlessly down. She looked very soft, and young,
and childlike; and a gush of love sprang into her father's heart as he
gazed at her.

'Molly!' said he, gently, taking the little brown hand that was hanging
down, and holding it in his own. 'Molly!'

She opened her eyes, that for one moment had no recognition in them.
Then the light came brilliantly into them and she sprang up, and threw
her arms round his neck, exclaiming,--

'Oh, papa, my dear, dear papa! What made you come while I was asleep? I
love the pleasure of watching for you.'

Mr. Gibson turned a little paler than he had been before. He still held
her hand, and drew her to a seat by him on a sofa, without speaking.
There was no need; she was chattering away.

'I was up so early! It is so charming to be out here in the fresh
morning air. I think that made me sleepy. But isn't it a gloriously hot
day? I wonder if the Italian skies they talk about can be bluer than
that--that little bit you see just between the oaks--there!'

She pulled her hand away, and used both it and the other to turn her
father's head, so that he should exactly see the very bit she meant.
She was rather struck by his unusual silence.

'Have you heard from Miss Eyre, papa? How are they all? And this fever
that is about? Do you know, papa, I don't think you are looking well?
You want me at home to take care of you. How soon may I come home?'

'Don't I look well? That must be all your fancy, goosey. I feel
uncommonly well; and I ought to look well, for----I have a piece of
news for you, little woman.' (He felt that he was doing his business
very awkwardly, but he was determined to plunge on.) 'Can you guess
it?'

'How should I?' said she; but her tone was changed, and she was
evidently uneasy, as with the presage of an instinct.

'Why, you see, my love,' said he, again taking her hand, 'that you are
in a very awkward position--a girl growing up in such a family as mine
--young men--which was a piece of confounded stupidity on my part. And
I am obliged to be away so much.'

'But there is Miss Eyre,' said she, sick with the strengthening
indefinite presage of what was to come. 'Dear Miss Eyre, I want nothing
but her and you.'

'Still there are times like the present when Miss Eyre cannot be with
you; her home is not with us; she has other duties. I've been in great
perplexity for some time; but at last I've taken a step which will, I
hope, make us both happier.'

'You're going to be married again,' said she, helping him out, with a
quiet dry voice, and gently drawing her hand out of his.

'Yes. To Mrs. Kirkpatrick--you remember her? They call her Clare at the
Towers. You recollect how kind she was to you that day you were left
there?'

She did not answer. She could not tell what words to use. She was
afraid of saying anything, lest the passion of anger, dislike,
indignation--whatever it was that was boiling up in her breast--should
find vent in cries and screams, or worse, in raging words that could
never be forgotten. It was as if the piece of solid ground on which she
stood had broken from the shore, and she was drifting out to the
infinite sea alone.

Mr. Gibson saw that her silence was unnatural, and half-guessed at the
cause of it. But he knew that she must have time to reconcile herself
to the idea, and still believed that it would be for her eventual
happiness. He had, besides, the relief of feeling that the secret was
told, the confidence made, which he had been dreading for the last
twenty-four hours. He went on recapitulating all the advantages of the
marriage; he knew them off by heart now.

'She's a very suitable age for me. I don't know how old she is exactly,
but she must be nearly forty. I shouldn't have wished to marry any one
younger. She's highly respected by Lord and Lady Cumnor and their
family, which is of itself a character. She has very agreeable and
polished manners--of course, from the circles she has been thrown into
--and you and I, goosey, are apt to be a little brusque, or so; we must
brush up our manners now.'

No remark from her on this little bit of playfulness. He went on,--

'She has been accustomed to housekeeping--economical housekeeping, too
--for of late years she has had a school at Ashcombe, and has had, of
course, to arrange all things for a large family. And last, but not
least, she has a daughter--about your age, Molly--who, of course, will
come and live with us, and be a nice companion--a sister--for you.'

Still she was silent. At length she said,--

'So I was sent out of the house that all this might be quietly arranged
in my absence?'

Out of the bitterness of her heart she spoke, but she was roused out of
her assumed impassiveness by the effect produced. Her father started
up, and quickly left the room, saying something to himself--what, she
could not hear, though she ran after him, followed him through dark
stone passages, into the glare of the stable-yard, into the stables--

'Oh, papa, papa--I'm not myself--I don't know what to say about this
hateful--detestable----'

He led his horse out. She did not know if he beard her words. Just as
he mounted, he turned round upon her with a grey grim face,--

'I think it's better for both of us, for me to go away now. We may say
things difficult to forget. We are both much agitated. By to-morrow we
shall be more composed; you will have thought it over, and have seen
that the principal--one great motive, I mean--was your good. You may
tell Mrs. Hamley--I meant to have told her myself. I will come again
to-morrow. Good-by, Molly.'

For many minutes after he had ridden away--long after the sound of his
horse's hoofs on the round stones of the paved lane, beyond the home-
meadows, had died away--Molly stood there, shading her eyes, and
looking at the empty space of air in which his form had last appeared.
Her very breath seemed suspended; only, two or three times, after long
intervals she drew a miserable sigh, which was caught up into a sob.
She turned way at last, but could not go into the house, could not tell
Mrs. Hamley, could not forget how her father had looked and spoken--and
left her.

She went out by a side-door--it was the way by which the gardeners
passed when they took the manure into the garden--and the walk to which
it led was concealed from sight as much as possible by shrubs and
evergreens and over-arching trees. No one would know what became of
her, and, with the ingratitude of misery, she added to herself, no one
would care. Mrs. Hamley had her own husband, her own children, her
close home interests--she was very good and kind, but there was a
bitter grief in Molly's heart, with which the stranger could not
intermeddle. She went quickly on to the bourne which she had fixed for
herself--a seat almost surrounded by the drooping leaves of a weeping-
ash--a seat on the long broad terrace walk on the other side of the
wood, that overlooked the pleasant slope of the meadows beyond; the
walk had probably been made to command this sunny, peaceful landscape,
with trees, and a church spire, two or three red-tiled roofs of old
cottages, and a purple bit of rising ground in the distance; and at
some previous date, when there might have been a large family of
Hamleys residing at the hall, ladies in hoops, and gentlemen in bag-
wigs with swords by their sides, might have filled up the breadth of
the terrace, as they sauntered, smiling, along. But no one ever cared
to saunter there now. It was a deserted walk. The squire or his sons
might cross it in passing to a little gate that led to the meadow
beyond; but no one loitered there. Molly almost thought that no one
knew of the hidden seat under the ash-tree but herself; for there were
not more gardeners employed upon the grounds than were necessary to
keep the kitchen-gardens and such of the ornamental part as was
frequented by the family, or in sight of the house, in good order.

When she had once got to the seat she broke out with a suppressed
passion of grief; she did not care to analyze the sources of her tears
and sobs--her father was going to be married again--her father was
angry with her; she had done very wrong--he had gone away displeased;
she had lost his love, he was going to be married--away from her--away
from his child--his little daughter--forgetting her own dear, dear
mother. So she thought in a tumultuous kind of way, sobbing till she
was wearied out, and had to gain strength by being quiet for a time, to
break forth into her passion of tears afresh. She had cast herself on
the ground--that natural throne for violent sorrow--and leant up
against the old moss-grown seat; sometimes burying her face in her
hands; sometimes clasping them together, as if by the tight painful
grasp of her fingers she could deaden mental suffering.

She did not see Roger Hamley returning from the meadows, nor hear the
click of the little white gate. He had been out dredging in ponds and
ditches, and had his wet sling-net, with its imprisoned treasures of
nastiness, over his shoulder. He was coming home to lunch, having
always a fine midday appetite, though he pretended to despise the meal
in theory. But he knew that his mother liked his companionship then;
she depended much upon her luncheon, and was seldom downstairs and
visible to her family much before the time. So he overcame his theory,
for the sake of his mother, and had his reward in the hearty relish
with which he kept her company in eating.

He did not see Molly as he crossed the terrace-walk on his way
homewards. He had gone about twenty yards on the small wood-path at
right angles to the terrace, when, looking among the grass and wild
plants under the trees, he spied out one which was rare, one which he
had been long wishing to find in flower, and saw it at last, with those
bright keen eyes of his. Down went his net, skilfully twisted so as to
retain its contents, while it lay amid the herbage, and he himself went
with light and well-planted footsteps in search of the treasure. He was
so great a lover of nature that, without any thought, but habitually,
he always avoided treading unnecessarily on any plant; who knew what
long-sought growth or insect might develop itself in what now appeared
but insignificant?

His steps led him in the direction of the ash-tree seat, much less
screened from observation on this side than on the terrace. He stopped;
he saw a light-coloured dress on the ground--somebody half-lying on the
seat, so still just then, he wondered if the person, whoever it was,
had fallen ill or fainted. He paused to watch. In a minute or two the
sobs broke out again--the words. It was Miss Gibson crying out in a
broken voice,--

'Oh, papa, papa! if you would but come back!'

For a minute or two he thought it would be kinder to leave her
believing herself unobserved; he had even made a retrograde step or
two, on tip-toe; but then he heard the miserable sobbing again. It was
farther than his mother could walk, or else, be the sorrow what it
would, she was the natural comforter of this girl, her visitor.
However, whether it was right or wrong, delicate or obtrusive, when he
heard the sad voice talking again, in such tones of uncomforted, lonely
misery, he turned back, and went to the green tent under the ash-tree.
She started up when he came thus close to her; she tried to check her
sobs, and instinctively smoothed her wet tangled hair back with her
hands.

He looked down upon her with grave, kind sympathy, but he did not know
exactly what to say.

'Is it lunch-time?' said she, trying to believe that he did not see the
traces of her tears and the disturbance of her features--that he had
not seen her lying, sobbing her heart out there.

'I don't know. I was going home to lunch. But--you must let me say it--
I couldn't go on when I saw your distress. Has anything happened?--
anything in which I can help you, I mean; for, of course, I've no right
to make the inquiry, if it is any private sorrow, in which I can be of
no use.'

She had exhausted herself so much with crying, that she felt as if she
could neither stand nor walk just yet. She sate down on the seat, and
sighed, and turned so pale, he thought she was going to faint.

'Wait a moment,' said he, quite unnecessarily, for she could not have
stirred; and he was off like a shot to some spring of water that he
knew of in the wood, and in a minute or two he returned with careful
steps, bringing a little in a broad green leaf, turned into an
impromptu cup. Little as it was, it did her good.

'Thank you!' she said: 'I can walk back now, in a short time. Don't
stop.'

'You must let me,' said he: 'my mother wouldn't like me to leave you to
come home alone, while you are so faint.'

So they remained in silence for a little while; he, breaking off and
examining one or two abnormal leaves of the ash-tree, partly from the
custom of his nature, partly to give her time to recover.

'Papa is going to be married again,' said she, at length.

She could not have said why she told him this; an instant before she
spoke, she had no intention of doing so. He dropped the leaf he held in
his hand, turned round, and looked at her. Her poor wistful eyes were
filling with tears as they met his, with a dumb appeal for sympathy.
Her look was much more eloquent than her words. There was a momentary
pause before he replied, and then it was more because he felt that he
must say something than that he was in any doubt as to the answer to
the question he asked.

'You are sorry for it?'

She did not take her eyes away from his, as her quivering lips formed
the word 'Yes,' though her voice made no sound. He was silent again
now; looking on the ground, kicking softly at a loose pebble with his
foot. His thoughts did not come readily to the surface in the shape of
words; nor was he apt at giving comfort till he saw his way clear to
the real source from which consolation must come. At last he spoke,--
almost as if he was reasoning out the matter with himself.

'It seems as if there might be cases where--setting the question of
love entirely on one side--it must be almost a duty to find some one to
be a substitute for the mother.... I can believe,' said he, in a
different tone of voice, and looking at Molly afresh, 'that this step
may be greatly for your father's happiness--it may relieve him from
many cares, and may give him a pleasant companion.'

'He had me. You don't know what we were to each other--at least, what
he was to me,' she added, humbly.

'Still he must have thought it for the best, or he wouldn't have done
it. He may have thought it the best for your sake even more than for
his own.'

'That is what he tried to convince me of.'

Roger began kicking the pebble again. He had not got hold of the right
end of the clue. Suddenly he looked up.

'I want to tell you of a girl I know. Her mother died when she was
about sixteen--the eldest of a large family. From that time--all though
the bloom of her youth--she gave herself up to her father first as his
comforter, afterwards as his companion, friend, secretary--anything you
like. He was a man with a great deal of business on hand, and often
came home only to set to afresh to preparations for the next day's
work. Harriet was always there, ready to help, to talk, or to be
silent. It went on for eight or ten years in this way; and then her
father married again,--a woman not many years older than Harriet
herself. Well--they are just the happiest set of people I know--you
wouldn't have thought it likely, would you?'

She was listening, but she had no heart to say anything. Yet she was
interested in this little story of Harriet--a girl who had been so much
to her father, more than Molly in this early youth of hers could have
been to Mr. Gibson. 'How was it?' she sighed out at last.

'Harriet thought of her father's happiness before she thought of her
own,' Roger answered, with something of severe brevity. Molly needed
the bracing. She began to cry again a little.

'If it were for papa's happiness----'

'He must believe that it is. Whatever you fancy, give him a chance. He
cannot have much comfort, I should think, if he sees you fretting or
pining,--you who have been so much to him, as you say. The lady
herself, too--if Harriet's stepmother had been a selfish woman, and
been always clutching after the gratification of her own wishes; but
she was not: she was as anxious for Harriet to be happy as Harriet was
for her father--and your father's future wife may be another of the
same kind, though such people are rare.'

'I don't think she is, though,' murmured Molly, a waft of recollection
bringing to her mind the details of her day at the Towers long ago.

Roger did not want to hear Molly's reasons for this doubting speech. He
felt as if he had no right to hear more of Mr. Gibson's family life,
past, present, or to come, than was absolutely necessary for him, in
order that he might comfort and help the crying girl, whom he had come
upon so unexpectedly. And besides, he wanted to go home, and be with
his mother at lunch-time. Yet he could not leave her alone.

'It is right to hope for the best about everybody, and not to expect
the worst. This sounds like a truism, but it has comforted me before
now, and some day you'll find it useful. One has always to try to think
more of others than of oneself, and it is best not to prejudge people
on the bad side. My sermons aren't long, are they? Have they given you
an appetite for lunch? Sermons always make me hungry, I know.'

He appeared to be waiting for her to get up and come along with him, as
indeed he was. But he meant her to perceive that he should not leave
her; so she rose up languidly, too languid to say how much she should
prefer being left alone, if he would only go away without her. She was
very weak, and stumbled over the straggling root of a tree that
projected across the path. He, watchful though silent, saw this
stumble, and putting out his hand held her up from falling. He still
held her hand when the occasion was past; this little physical failure
impressed on his heart how young and helpless she was, and he yearned
to her, remembering the passion of sorrow in which he had found her,
and longing to be of some little tender bit of comfort to her, before
they parted--before their _tete-a-tete_ walk was merged in the general
familiarity of the household life. Yet he did not know what to say.

'You will have thought me hard,' he burst out at length, as they were
nearing the drawing-room windows and the garden-door. 'I never can
manage to express what I feel, somehow I always fall to philosophizing,
but I am sorry for you. Yes, I am; it's beyond my power to help you, as
far as altering facts goes, but I can feel for you, in a way which it's
best not to talk about, for it can do no good. Remember how sorry I am
for you! I shall often be thinking of you, though I daresay it's best
not to talk about it again.'

She said, 'I know you are sorry,' under her breath, and then she broke
away, and ran indoors, and upstairs to the solitude of her own room. He
went straight to his mother, who was sitting before the untasted
luncheon, as much annoyed by the mysterious unpunctuality of her
visitor as she was capable of being with anything; for she had heard
that Mr. Gibson had been, and was gone, and she could not discover if
he had left any message for her; and her anxiety about her own health,
which some people esteemed hypochondriacal, always made her
particularly craving for the wisdom which might fall from her doctor's
lips.

'Where have you been, Roger? Where is Molly?--Miss Gibson, I mean,' for
she was careful to keep up a barrier of forms between the young man and
young woman who were thrown together in the same household.

'I've been out dredging. (By the way, I left my net on the terrace
walk.) I found Miss Gibson sitting there, crying as if her heart would
break. Her father is going to be married again.'

'Married again! You don't say so.'

'Yes, he is; and she takes it very hardly, poor girl. Mother, I think
if you could send some one to her with a glass of wine, a cup of tea,
or something of that sort--she was very nearly fainting----'

'I'll go to her myself, poor child,' said Mrs. Hamley, rising.

'Indeed you must not,' said he, laying his hand upon her arm. 'We have
kept you waiting already too long; you are looking quite pale. Hammond
can take it,' he continued, ringing the bell. She sate down again,
almost stunned with surprise.

'Whom is he going to marry?'

'I don't know. I didn't ask, and she didn't tell me.'

'That's so like a man. Why, half the character of the affair lies in
the question of whom it is that he is going to marry.'

'I daresay I ought to have asked. But somehow I'm not a good one on
such occasions. I was as sorry as could be for her, and yet I couldn't
tell what to say.'

'What did you say?'

'I gave her the best advice in my power.'

'Advice! you ought to have comforted her. Poor little Molly!'

'I think that if advice is good it's the best comfort.'

'That depends on what you mean by advice. Hush! here she is.'

To their surprise, Molly came in, trying hard to look as usual. She had
bathed her eyes, and arranged her hair; and was making a great struggle
to keep from crying, and to bring her voice into order. She was
unwilling to distress Mrs. Hamley by the sight of pain and suffering.
She did not know that she was following Roger's injunctions to think
more of others than of herself--but so she was. Mrs. Hamley was not
sure if it was wise in her to begin on the piece of news she had just
heard from her son; but she was too full of it herself to talk of
anything else. 'So I hear your father is going to be married, my dear?
May I ask whom it is to?'

'Mrs. Kirkpatrick. I think she was governess a long time ago at the
Countess of Cumnor's. She stays with them a great deal, and they call
her Clare, and I believe they are very fond of her.' Molly tried to
speak of her future stepmother in the most favourable manner she knew
how.

'I think I've heard of her. Then she is not very young? That's as it
should be. A widow too. Has she any family?'

'One girl, I believe. But I know so little about her!'

Molly was very near crying again.

'Never mind, my dear. That will all come in good time. Roger, you've
hardly eaten anything; where are you going?'

'To fetch my dredging-net. It's full of things I don't want to lose.
Besides, I never eat much, as a general thing.' The truth was partly
told, not all. He thought he had better leave the other two alone. His
mother had such sweet power of sympathy, that she would draw the sting
out of the girl's heart, when she had her alone. As soon as he was
gone, Molly lifted up her poor swelled eyes, and, looking at Mrs
Hamley, she said,--'He was so good to me. I mean to try and remember
all he said.'

'I'm glad to hear it, love; very glad. From what he told me, I was
afraid he had been giving you a little lecture. He has a good heart,
but he isn't so tender in his manner as Osborne. Roger is a little
rough sometimes.'

'Then I like roughness. It did me good. It made me feel how badly--oh,
Mrs. Hamley, I did behave so badly to papa this morning.'

She rose up and threw herself into Mrs. Hamley's arms, and sobbed upon
her breast. Her sorrow was not now for the fact that her father was
going to be married again, but for her own ill-behaviour.

If Roger was not tender in words, he was in deeds. Unreasonable and
possibly exaggerated as Molly's grief had appeared to him, it was real
suffering to her; and he took some pains to lighten it, in his own way,
which was characteristic enough. That evening he adjusted his
microscope, and put the treasures he had collected in his morning's
ramble on a little table; and then he asked his mother to come and
admire. Of course Molly came too, and this was what he had intended. He
tried to interest her in his pursuit, cherished her first little morsel
of curiosity, and nursed it into a very proper desire for further
information. Then he brought out books on the subject, and translated
the slightly pompous and technical language into homely every-day
speech. Molly had come down to dinner, wondering how the long hours
till bedtime would ever pass away: hours during which she must not
speak on the one thing that would be occupying her mind to the
exclusion of all others; for she was afraid that already she had
wearied Mrs. Hamley with it during their afternoon _tete-a-tete_. But
prayers and bedtime came long before she had expected; she had been
refreshed by a new current of thought, and she was very thankful to
Roger. And now there was to-morrow to come, and a confession of
penitence to be made to her father.

But Mr. Gibson did not want speech or words. He was not fond of
expressions of feeling at any time, and perhaps, too, he felt that the
less said the better on a subject about which it was evident that his
daughter and he were not thoroughly and impulsively in harmony. He read
her repentance in her eyes; he saw how much she had suffered; and he
had a sharp pang at his heart in consequence. But he stopped her from
speaking out her regret at her behaviour the day before, by a 'There,
there, that will do. I know all you want to say. I know my little,
Molly--my silly little goosey--better than she knows herself. I've
brought you an invitation. Lady Cumnor wants you to go and spend next
Thursday at the Towers!'

'Do you wish me to go?' said she, her heart sinking.

'I wish you and Hyacinth to become better acquainted--to learn to love
each other.'

'Hyacinth!' said Molly, entirely bewildered.

'Yes; Hyacinth! It's the silliest name I ever heard of; but it's hers,
and I must call her by it. I can't bear Clare, which is what my lady
and all the family at the Towers call her; and "Mrs Kirkpatrick" is
formal and nonsensical too, as she'll change her name so soon.'

'When, papa?' asked Molly, feeling as if she were living in a strange,
unknown world.

'Not till after Michaelmas.' And then, continuing on his own thoughts,
he added, 'And the worst is, she's gone and perpetuated her own
affected name by having her daughter called after her. Cynthia! One
thinks of the moon, and the man in the moon with his bundle of faggots.
I'm thankful you're plain Molly, child.'

'How old is she--Cynthia, I mean?'

'Ay, get accustomed to the name. I should think Cynthia Kirkpatrick was
about as old as you are. She's at school in France, picking up airs and
graces. She's to come home for the wedding, so you'll be able to get
acquainted with her then; though, I think, she's to go back again for
another half-year or so.'




CHAPTER XI

MAKING FRIENDSHIP


Mr. Gibson believed that Cynthia Kirkpatrick was to return to England
to be present at her mother's wedding; but Mrs. Kirkpatrick had no such
intention. She was not what is commonly called a woman of
determination; but somehow what she disliked she avoided, and what she
liked she tried to do, or to have. So although in the conversation,
which she had already led to, as to the when and the how she was to be
married, she had listened quietly to Mr. Gibson's proposal that Molly
and Cynthia should be the two bridesmaids, she had felt how
disagreeable it would be to her to have her young daughter flashing out
her beauty by the side of the faded bride, her mother; and as the
further arrangements for the wedding became more definite, she saw
further reasons in her own mind for Cynthia's remaining quietly at her
school at Boulogne.

Mrs. Kirkpatrick had gone to bed that first night of her engagement to
Mr. Gibson, fully anticipating a speedy marriage. She looked to it as a
release from the thraldom of keeping school--keeping an unprofitable
school, with barely enough of pupils to pay for house-rent and taxes,
food, washing, and the requisite masters. She saw no reason for ever
going back to Ashcombe, except to wind up her affairs, and to pack up
her clothes. She hoped that Mr. Gibson's ardour would be such that he
would press on the marriage, and urge her never to resume her school
drudgery, but to relinquish it now and for ever. She even made up a
very pretty, very passionate speech for him in her own mind; quite
sufficiently strong to prevail upon her, and to overthrow the scruples
which she felt that she ought to have, at telling the parents of her
pupils that she did not intend to resume school, and that they must
find another place of education for their daughters, in the last week
but one of the midsummer holidays.

It was rather like a douche of cold water on Mrs. Kirkpatrick's plans,
when the next morning at breakfast Lady Cumnor began to decide upon the
arrangements and duties of the two middle-aged lovers.

'Of course you can't give up your school all at once, Clare. The
wedding can't be before Christmas, but that will do very well. We shall
all be down at the Towers; and it will be a nice amusement for the
children to go over to Ashcombe, and see you married.'

'I think--I am afraid--I don't believe Mr. Gibson will like waiting so
long; men are so impatient under these circumstances.'

'Oh, nonsense! Lord Cumnor has recommended you to his tenants, and I'm
sure he wouldn't like them to be put to any inconvenience. Mr Gibson
will see that in a moment. He's a man of sense, or else he wouldn't be
our family doctor. Now, what are you going to do about your little
girl? Have you fixed yet?'

'No. Yesterday there seemed so little time, and when one is agitated it
is so difficult to think of everything. Cynthia is nearly eighteen, old
enough to go out as a governess, if he wishes it, but I don't think he
will. He is so generous and kind.'

'Well! I must give you time to settle some of your affairs to-day.
Don't waste it in sentiment, you're too old for that. Come to a clear
understanding with each other; it will be for your happiness in the
long run.'

So they did come to a clear understanding about one or two things. To
Mrs. Kirkpatrick's dismay, she found that Mr. Gibson had no more idea
than Lady Cumnor of her breaking faith with the parents of her pupils.
Though he really was at a serious loss as to what was to become of
Molly until she could be under the protection of his new wife at her
own home, and though his domestic worries teased him more and more
every day, he was too honourable to think of persuading Mrs.
Kirkpatrick to give up school a week sooner than was right for his
sake. He did not even perceive how easy the task of persuasion would
be; with all her winning wiles she could scarcely lead him to feel
impatience for the wedding to take place at Michaelmas.

'I can hardly tell you what a comfort and relief it will be to me,
Hyacinth, when you are once my wife--the mistress of my home--poor
little Molly's mother and protector; but I wouldn't interfere with your
previous engagements for the world. It wouldn't be right.'

'Thank you, my own love. How good you are! So many men would think only
of their own wishes and interests! I'm sure the parents of my dear
pupils will admire you--will be quite surprised at your consideration
for their interests.'

'Don't tell them, then. I hate being admired. Why shouldn't you say it
is your wish to keep on your school till they've had time to look out
for another?'

'Because it isn't,' said she, daring all. 'I long to be making you
happy; I want to make your home a place of rest and comfort to you; and
I do so wish to cherish your sweet Molly, as I hope to do, when I come
to be her mother. I can't take virtue to myself which doesn't belong to
me. If I have to speak for myself, I shall say, "Good people, find a
school for your daughters by Michaelmas,--for after that time I must go
and make the happiness of others." I can't bear to think of your long
rides in November--coming home wet at night with no one to take care of
you. Oh! if you leave it to me, I shall advise the parents to take
their daughters away from the care of one whose heart will be absent.
Though I couldn't consent to any time before Michaelmas--that wouldn't
be fair or right, and I'm sure you wouldn't urge me--you are too good.'

'Well, if you think that they will consider we have acted uprightly by
them, let it be Michaelmas with all my heart. What does Lady Cumnor
say?'

'Oh! I told her I was afraid you wouldn't like waiting, because of your
difficulties with your servants, and because of Molly--it would be so
desirable to enter on the new relationship with her as soon as
possible.'

'To be sure; so it would. Poor child! I'm afraid the intelligence of my
engagement has rather startled her.'

'Cynthia will feel it deeply, too,' said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, unwilling to
let her daughter be behind Mr. Gibson's in sensibility and affection.

'We will have her over to the wedding! She and Molly shall be
bridesmaids,' said Mr. Gibson, in the unguarded warmth of his heart.

This plan did not quite suit Mrs. Kirkpatrick; but she thought it best
not to oppose it, until she had a presentable excuse to give, and
perhaps also some reason would naturally arise out of future
circumstances; so at this time she only smiled, and softly pressed the
hand she held in hers.

It is a question whether Mrs. Kirkpatrick or Molly wished the most for
the day to be over which they were to spend together at the Towers.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick was rather weary of girls as a class. All the trials
of her life were connected with girls in some way. She was very young
when she first became a governess, and had been worsted in her
struggles with her pupils, in the first place she ever went to. Her
elegance of appearance and manner, and her accomplishments, more than
her character and acquirements, had rendered it more easy for her than
for most to obtain good 'situations;' and she had been absolutely
petted in some; but still she was constantly encountering naughty or
stubborn, or over-conscientious, or severe-judging, or curious and
observant girls. And again, before Cynthia was born, she had longed for
a boy, thinking it possible that if some three or four intervening
relations died, he might come to be a baronet; and instead of a son, lo
and behold it was a daughter! Nevertheless, with all her dislike to
girls in the abstract as 'the plagues of her life' (and her aversion
was not diminished by the fact of her having kept a school for 'young
ladies' at Ashcombe), she really meant to be as kind as she could be to
her new step-daughter, whom she remembered principally as a black-
haired, sleepy child, in whose eyes she had read admiration of herself.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick accepted Mr. Gibson principally because she was tired
of the struggle of earning her own livelihood; but she liked him
personally--nay, she even loved him in her torpid way, and she intended
to be good to his daughter, though she felt as if it would have been
easier for her to have been good to his son.

Molly was bracing herself up in her way too. 'I will be like Harriet. I
will think of others. I won't think of myself,' she kept repeating all
the way to the Towers. But there was no selfishness in wishing that the
day was come to an end, and that she did very heartily. Mrs. Hamley
sent her thither in the carriage, which was to wait and bring her back
at night. Mrs. Hamley wanted Molly to make a favourable impression, and
she sent for her to come and show herself before she set out.

'Don't put on your silk gown--your white muslin will look the nicest,
my dear.'

'Not my silk? it is quite new! I had it to come here.'

'Still, I think your white muslin suits you the best.' 'Anything but
that horrid plaid silk' was the thought in Mrs. Hamley's mind; and,
thanks to her, Molly set off for the Towers, looking a little quaint,
it is true, but thoroughly ladylike, if she was old-fashioned. Her
father was to meet her there; but he had been detained, and she had to
face Mrs. Kirkpatrick by herself, the recollection of her last day of
misery at the Towers fresh in her mind as if it had been yesterday.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick was as caressing as could be. She held Molly's hand in
hers, as they sate together in the library, after the first salutations
were over. She kept stroking it from time to time, and purring out
inarticulate sounds of loving satisfaction, as she gazed in the
blushing face.

'What eyes! so like your dear father's! How we shall love each other--
shan't we, darling? For his sake!'

'I'll try,' said Molly, bravely; and then she could not finish her
sentence.

'And you've just got the same beautiful black curling hair!' said Mrs.
Kirkpatrick, softly lifting one of Molly's curls from off her white
temple.

'Papa's hair is growing grey,' said Molly.

'Is it? I never see it. I never shall see it. He will always be to me
the handsomest of men.'

Mr. Gibson was really a very handsome man, and Molly was pleased with
the compliment; but she could not help saying,--

'Still he will grow old, and his hair will grow grey. I think he will
be just as handsome, but it won't be as a young man.'

'Ah! that's just it, love. He'll always be handsome; some people always
are. And he is so fond of you, dear.' Molly's colour flashed into her
face. She did not want an assurance of her own father's love from this
strange woman. She could not help being angry; all she could do was to
keep silent. 'You don't know how he speaks of you; "his little
treasure," as he calls you. I'm almost jealous sometimes.'

Molly took her hand away, and her heart began to harden; these speeches
were so discordant to her. But she set her teeth together, and 'tried
to be good.'

'We must make him so happy. I'm afraid he has had a great deal to annoy
him at home; but we will do away with all that now. You must tell me,'
seeing the cloud in Molly's eyes, 'what he likes and dislikes, for of
course you will know.'

Molly's face cleared a little; of course she did know. She had not
watched and loved him so long without believing that she understood
him better than any one else; though how he had come to like Mrs
Kirkpatrick enough to wish to marry her, was an unsolved problem
that she unconsciously put aside as inexplicable. Mrs. Kirkpatrick
went on,--'All men have their fancies and antipathies, even the wisest.
I have known some gentlemen annoyed beyond measure by the merest
trifles; leaving a door open, or spilling tea in their saucers, or a
shawl crookedly put on. Why,' continued she, lowering her voice, 'I
know of a house to which Lord Hollingford will never be asked again
because he didn't wipe his shoes on both the mats in the hall! Now
you must tell me what your dear father dislikes most in these fanciful
ways, and I shall take care to avoid it. You must be my little friend
and helper in pleasing him. It will be such a pleasure to me to attend
to his slightest fancies. About my dress, too--what colours does he
like best? I want to do everything in my power with a view to his
approval.'

Molly was gratified by all this, and began to think that really, after
all, perhaps her father had done well for himself; and that if she
could help towards his new happiness, she ought to do it. So she tried
very conscientiously to think over Mr. Gibson's wishes and ways; to
ponder over what annoyed him the most in his household.

'I think,' said she, 'papa isn't particular about many things; but I
think our not having the dinner quite punctual--quite ready for him
when he comes in, fidgets him more than anything. You see, he has often
had a long ride, and there is another long ride to come, and he has
only half-an-hour--sometimes only a quarter--to eat his dinner in.'

'Thank you, my own love. Punctuality! Yes; it's a great thing in a
household. It's what I've had to enforce with my young ladies at
Ashcombe. No wonder poor dear Mr. Gibson has been displeased at his
dinner not being ready, and he so hard-worked!'

'Papa doesn't care what he has, if it's only ready. He would take
bread-and-cheese, if cook would only send it in instead of dinner.'

'Bread-and-cheese! Does Mr. Gibson eat cheese?'

'Yes; he's very fond of it,' said Molly, innocently. 'I've known him
eat toasted cheese when he has been too tired to fancy anything else.'

'Oh! but, my dear, we must change all that. I shouldn't like to think
of your father eating cheese; it's such a strong-smelling, coarse kind
of thing. We must get him a cook who can toss him up an omelette, or
something elegant. Cheese is only fit for the kitchen.'

'Papa is very fond of it,' persevered Molly.

'Oh! but we will cure him of that. I couldn't bear the smell of cheese;
and I'm sure he would be sorry to annoy me.'

Molly was silent; it did not do, she found, to be too minute in telling
about her father's likes or dislikes. She had better leave them for
Mrs. Kirkpatrick to find out for herself. It was an awkward pause; each
was trying to find something agreeable to say. Molly spoke at length.
'Please! I should so like to know something about Cynthia--your
daughter.'

'Yes, call her Cynthia. It's a pretty name, isn't it? Cynthia
Kirkpatrick. Not so pretty, though, as my old name, Hyacinth Clare.
People used to say it suited me so well. I must show you an acrostic a
gentleman--he was a lieutenant in the 53rd--made upon it. Oh! we shall
have a great deal to say to each other, I foresee!'

'But about Cynthia?'

'Oh, yes! about dear Cynthia. What do you want to know, my dear?'

'Papa said she was to live with us! When will she come?'

'Oh, was it not sweet of your kind father? I thought of nothing else
but Cynthia's going out as a governess when she had completed her
education; she has been brought up for it, and has had great
advantages. But good dear Mr. Gibson wouldn't hear of it. He said
yesterday that she must come and live with us when she left school.'

'When will she leave school?'

'She went for two years. I don't think I must let her leave before next
summer. She teaches English as well as learning French. Next summer she
shall come home, and then shan't we be a happy little quartette?'

'I hope so,' said Molly. 'But she is to come to the wedding, isn't
she?' she went on timidly, now knowing how far Mrs. Kirkpatrick would
like the allusion to her marriage.

'Your father has begged for her to come; but we must think about it a
little more before quite fixing it. The journey is a great expense!'

'Is she like you? I do so want to see her.'

'She is very handsome, people say. In the bright-coloured style,--
perhaps something like what I was. But I like the dark-haired foreign
kind of beauty best--just now,' touching Molly's hair, and looking at
her with an expression of sentimental remembrance.

'Does Cynthia--is she very clever and accomplished?' asked Molly, a
little afraid lest the answer should remove Miss Kirkpatrick at too
great a distance from her.

'She ought to be; I've paid ever so much money to have her taught by
the best masters. But you will see her before long, and I'm afraid we
must go now to Lady Cumnor. It has been very charming having you all to
myself, but I know Lady Cumnor will be expecting us now, and she was
very curious to see you,--my future daughter, as she calls you.'

Molly followed Mrs. Kirkpatrick into the morning-room, where Lady
Cumnor was sitting--a little annoyed, because, having completed her
_toilette_ earlier than usual, Clare had not been aware by instinct of
the fact, and so had not brought Molly Gibson for inspection a quarter
of an hour before. Every small occurrence is an event in the day of a
convalescent invalid, and a little while ago Molly would have met with
patronizing appreciation, where now she had to encounter criticism. Of
Lady Cumnor's character as an individual she knew nothing; she only
knew she was going to see and be seen by a live countess; nay, more, by
'_the_ countess' of Hollingford.

Mrs. Kirkpatrick led her into Lady Cumnor's presence by the hand, and
in presenting her, said,--'My dear little daughter, Lady Cumnor!'

'Now, Clare, don't let me have nonsense. She is not your daughter yet,
and may never be,--I believe that one-third of the engagements I have
heard of, have never come to marriages. Miss Gibson, I am very glad to
see you, for your father's sake; when I know you better, I hope it will
be for your own.'

Molly very heartily hoped that she might never be known any better by
the stern-looking lady who sate so uprightly in the easy chair,
prepared for lounging, and which therefore gave all the more effect to
the stiff attitude. Lady Cumnor luckily took Molly's silence for
acquiescent humility, and went on speaking after a further little pause
of inspection.

'Yes, yes, I like her looks, Clare. You may make something of her. It
will be a great advantage to you, my dear, to have a lady who has
trained up several young people of quality always about you just at the
time when you are growing up. I'll tell you what, Clare!'--a sudden
thought striking her,--'you and she must become better acquainted--you
know nothing of each other at present; you are not to be married till
Christmas, and what could be better than that she should go back with
you to Ashcombe! She would be with you constantly, and have the
advantage of the companionship of your young people, which would be a
good thing for an only child! It's a capital plan; I'm very glad I
thought of it!'

Now it would be difficult to say which of Lady Cumnor's two hearers was
the most dismayed at the idea which had taken possession of her. Mrs.
Kirkpatrick had no fancy for being encumbered with a step-daughter
before her time. If Molly came to be an inmate of her house, farewell
to many little background economies, and a still more serious farewell
to many little indulgences, that were innocent enough in themselves,
but which Mrs. Kirkpatrick's former life had caused her to look upon as
sins to be concealed: the dirty dog's-eared delightful novel from the
Ashcombe circulating library, the leaves of which she turned over with
a pair of scissors, the lounging-chair which she had for use at her own
home, straight and upright as she sate now in Lady Cumnor's presence;
the dainty morsel, savoury and small, to which she treated herself for
her own solitary supper,--all these and many other similarly pleasant
things would have to be foregone if Molly came to be her pupil,
parlour-boarder, or visitor, as Lady Cumnor was planning. One--two
things Clare was instinctively resolved upon: to be married at
Michaelmas, and not to have Molly at Ashcombe. But she smiled as
sweetly as if the plan proposed was the most charming project in the
world, while all the time her poor brains were beating about in every
bush for the reasons or excuses of which she should make use at some
future time. Molly, however, saved her all this trouble. It was a
question which of the three was the most surprised by the words which
burst out of her lips. She did not mean to speak, but her heart was
very full, and almost before she was aware of her thought she heard
herself saying,--

'I don't think it would be nice at all. I mean, my lady, that I should
dislike it very much; it would be taking me away from papa just these
very few last months. I will like you,' she went on, her eyes full of
tears; and, turning to Mrs. Kirkpatrick, she put her hand into her
future stepmother's with the prettiest and most trustful action. 'I
will try hard to love you, and to do all I can to make you happy, but
you must not take me away from papa just this very last bit of time
that I shall have him.'

Mrs. Kirkpatrick fondled the hand thus placed in hers, and was grateful
to the girl for her outspoken opposition to Lady Cumnor's plan. Clare
was, however, exceedingly unwilling to back up Molly by any words of
her own until Lady Cumnor had spoken and given the cue. But there was
something in Molly's little speech, or in her straightforward manner,
that amused instead of irritating Lady Cumnor in her present mood.
Perhaps she was tired of the silkiness with which she had been shut up
for so many days.

She put up her glasses, and looked at them both before speaking. Then
she said,--'Upon my word, young lady! Why, Clare, you've got your work
before you! Not but what there is a good deal of truth in what she
says. It must be very disagreeable to a girl of her age to have a
stepmother coming in between her father and herself, whatever may be
the advantages to her in the long run.'

Molly almost felt as if she could make a friend of the stiff old
countess, for her clearness of sight as to the plan proposed being a
trial; but she was afraid, in her new-born desire of thinking for
others, of Mrs. Kirkpatrick being hurt. She need not have feared as far
as outward signs went, for the smile was still on that lady's pretty
rosy lips, and the soft fondling of her hand never stopped. Lady Cumnor
was more interested in Molly the more she looked at her; and her gaze
was pretty steady through her gold-rimmed eye-glasses. She began a sort
of catechism; a string of very straightforward questions, such as any
lady under the rank of countess might have scrupled to ask, but which
were not unkindly meant.

'You are sixteen, are you not?'

'No; I am seventeen. My birthday was three weeks ago.'

'Very much the same thing, I should think. Have you ever been to
school?'

'No, never! Miss Eyre has taught me everything I know.'

'Umph! Miss Eyre was your governess, I suppose? I should not have
thought your father could have afforded to keep a governess. But of
course he must know his own affairs best.'

'Certainly, my lady,' replied Molly, a little touchy as to any
reflections on her father's wisdom.

'You say "certainly!" as if it was a matter of course that every one
should know their own affairs best. You are very young, Miss Gibson--
very. You'll know better before you come to my age. And I suppose
you've been taught music, and the use of the globes, and French, and
all the usual accomplishments, since you have had a governess? I never
heard of such nonsense!' she went on, lashing herself up. 'An only
daughter! If there had been half-a-dozen girls, there might have been
some sense in it.'

Molly did not speak but it was by a strong effort that she kept
silence. Mrs. Kirkpatrick fondled her hand more perseveringly than
ever, hoping thus to express a sufficient amount of sympathy to prevent
her from saying anything injudicious. But the caress had become
wearisome to Molly, and only irritated her nerves. She took her hand
out of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, with a slight manifestation of impatience.

It was, perhaps, fortunate for the general peace that just at this
moment Mr. Gibson was announced. It is odd enough to see how the
entrance of a person of the opposite sex into an assemblage of either
men or women calms down the little discordances and the disturbance of
mood. It was the case now; at Mr. Gibson's entrance my lady took off
her glasses, and smoothed her brow; Mrs. Kirkpatrick managed to get up
a very becoming blush, and as for Molly, her face glowed with delight,
and the white teeth and pretty dimples came out like sunlight on a
landscape.

Of course, after the first greeting, my lady had to have a private
interview with her doctor; and Molly and her future stepmother wandered
about in the gardens with their arms round each other's waists, or hand
in hand, like the babes in the wood; Mrs. Kirkpatrick active in such
endearments, Molly passive, and feeling within herself very shy and
strange; for she had that particular kind of shy modesty which makes
any one uncomfortable at receiving caresses from a person towards whom
the heart does not go forth with an impulsive welcome.

Then came the early dinner; Lady Cumnor having hers in the quiet of her
own room, to which she was still a prisoner. Once or twice during the
meal, the idea crossed Molly's mind that her father disliked his
position as a middle-aged lover being made so evident to the men in
waiting as it was by Mrs. Kirkpatrick's affectionate speeches and
innuendos. He tried to banish every tint of pink sentimentalism from
the conversation, and to confine it to matter of fact; and when Mrs.
Kirkpatrick would persevere in dwelling upon such facts as had a
bearing upon the future relationship of the parties, he insisted upon
viewing them in the most matter-of-fact way; and this continued even
after the men had left the room. An old rhyme Molly had heard Betty
use, would keep running in her head and making her uneasy,--

    'Two is company,
     Three is trumpery.'

But where could she go to in that strange house? What ought she to do?
She was roused from this fit of wonder and abstraction by her father's
saying,--'What do you think of this plan of Lady Cumnor's? She says she
was advising you to have Molly as a visitor at Ashcombe until we are
married.'

Mrs. Kirkpatrick's countenance fell. If only Molly would be so good as
to testify again, as she had done before Lady Cumnor! But if the
proposal was made by her father, it would come to his daughter from a
different quarter than it had done from a strange lady, be she ever so
great. Molly did not say anything; she only looked pale, and wistful,
and anxious. Mrs. Kirkpatrick had to speak for herself.

'It would be a charming plan, only--Well! we know why we would rather
not have it, don't we, love? And we won't tell papa, for fear of making
him vain. No! I think I must leave her with you, dear Mr Gibson, to
have you all to herself for these last few weeks. It would be cruel to
take her away.'

'But you know, my dear, I told you of the reason why it does not do to
have Molly at home just at present,' said Mr. Gibson, eagerly. For the
more he knew of his future wife, the more he felt it necessary to
remember that, with all her foibles, she would be able to stand between
Molly and any such adventures as that which had occurred lately with
Mr. Coxe; so that one of the good reasons for the step he had taken was
always present to him, while it had slipped off the smooth surface of
Mrs. Kirkpatrick's mirror-like mind without leaving any impression. She
now recalled it, on seeing Mr. Gibson's anxious face.

But what were Molly's feelings at these last words of her father's? She
had been sent from home for some reason, kept a secret from her, but
told to this strange woman. Was there to be perfect confidence between
these two, and she to be for ever shut out? Was she, and what concerned
her--though how, she did not know--to be discussed between them for the
future, and she to be kept in the dark? A bitter pang of jealousy made
her heart-sick. She might as well go to Ashcombe, or anywhere else,
now. Thinking more of others' happiness than of her own was very fine;
but did it not mean giving up her very individuality, quenching all the
warm love, the keen desires, that made her herself? Yet in this
deadness lay her only comfort; or so it seemed. Wandering in such
mazes, she hardly knew how the conversation went on; a third was indeed
'trumpery,' where there was entire confidence between the two who were
company, from which the other was shut out. She was positively unhappy,
and her father did not appear to see it; he was absorbed with his new
plans and his new wife that was to be. But he did notice it; and was
keenly sorry for his little girl; only he thought that there was a
greater chance for the future harmony of the household, if he did not
lead Molly to define her present feelings by putting them into words.
It was his general plan to repress emotion by not showing the sympathy
he felt. Yet, when he had to leave, he took Molly's hand in his, and
held it there, in such a different manner to that in which Mrs.
Kirkpatrick had done; and his voice softened to his child as he bade
her good-by, and added the words (most unusual to him), 'God bless you,
child!'

Molly had held up all the day bravely; she had not shown anger, or
repugnance, or annoyance, or regret; but when once more by herself in
the Hamley carriage, she burst into a passion of tears, and cried her
fill till she reached the village of Hamley. Then she tried in vain to
smooth her face into smiles, and do away with the other signs of her
grief. She only hoped she could run upstairs to her own room without
notice, and bathe her eyes in cold water before she was seen. But at
the hall-door she was caught by the squire and Roger coming in from an
after-dinner stroll in the garden, and hospitably anxious to help her
to alight. Roger saw the state of things in an instant, and saying,--

'My mother has been looking for you to come back for this last hour,'
he led the way to the drawing-room. But Mrs. Hamley was not there; the
squire had stopped to speak to the coachman about one of the horses;
they two were alone. Roger said,--

'I am afraid you have had a very trying day. I have thought of you
several times, for I know how awkward these new relations are.'

'Thank you,' said she, her lips trembling, and on the point of crying
again. 'I did try to remember what you said, and to think more of
others, but it is so difficult sometimes; you know it is, don't you?'

'Yes,' said he, gravely. He was gratified by her simple confession of
having borne his words of advice in mind, and tried to act up to them.
He was but a very young man, and he was honestly flattered; perhaps
this led him on to offer more advice, and this time it was evidently
mingled with sympathy. He did not want to draw out her confidence,
which he felt might very easily be done with such a simple girl; but he
wished to help her by giving her a few of the principles on which he
had learnt to rely. 'It is difficult,' he went on, 'but by-and-by you
will be so much happier for it.'

'No, I shan't!' said Molly, shaking her head. 'It will be very dull
when I shall have killed myself, as it were, and live only in trying to
do, and to be, as other people like. I don't see any end to it. I might
as well never have lived. And as for the happiness you speak of, I
shall never be happy again.'

There was an unconscious depth in what she said, that Roger did not
know how to answer at the moment; it was easier to address himself to
the assertion of the girl of seventeen, that she should never be happy
again.

'Nonsense: perhaps in ten years' time you will be looking back on this
trial as a very light one--who knows?'

'I daresay it seems foolish; perhaps all our earthly trials will appear
foolish to us after a while; perhaps they seem so now to angels. But we
are ourselves, you know, and this is now, not some time to come, a
long, long way off. And we are not angels, to be comforted by seeing
the ends for which everything is sent.'

She had never spoken so long a sentence to him before; and when she had
said it, though she did not take her eyes away from his, as they stood
steadily looking at each other, she blushed a little; she could not
have told why. Nor did he tell himself why a sudden pleasure came over
him as he gazed at her simple expressive face--and for a moment lost
the sense of what she was saying, in the sensation of pity for her sad
earnestness. In an instant more he was himself again. Only it is
pleasant to the wisest, most reasonable youth of one or two and twenty
to find himself looked up to as a Mentor by a girl of seventeen.

'I know, I understand. Yes: it is _now_ we have to do with. Don't let
us go into metaphysics.' Molly opened her eyes wide at this. Had she
been talking metaphysics without knowing it? 'One looks forward to a
mass of trials, which will only have to be encountered one by one,
little by little. Oh, here is my mother! she will tell you better than
I can.'

And the _tete-a-tete_ was merged in a trio. Mrs. Hamley lay down; she
had not been well all day--she had missed Molly, she said,--and now she
wanted to hear of all the adventures that had occurred to the girl at
the Towers. Molly sate on a stool close to the head of the sofa, and
Roger, though at first he took up a book and tried to read that he
might be no restraint, soon found his reading all a pretence: it was so
interesting to listen to Molly's little narrative, and, besides, if he
could give her any help in her time of need, was it not his duty to
make himself acquainted with all the circumstances of her case?

And so they went on during all the remaining time of Molly's stay at
Hamley. Mrs. Hamley sympathized, and liked to hear details, as the
French say, her sympathy was given _en detail_, the squire's _en gros_.
He was very sorry for her evident grief, and almost felt guilty, as if
he had had a share in bringing it about, by the mention he had made of
the possibility of Mr. Gibson's marrying again, when first Molly had
come on her visit to them. He said to his wife more than once,--

''Pon my word, now, I wish I'd never spoken those unlucky words that
first day at dinner. Do you remember how she took them up? It was like
a prophecy of what was to come, now, wasn't it? And she looked pale
from that day, and I don't think she has ever fairly enjoyed her food
since. I must take more care what I say for the future. Not but what
Gibson is doing the very best thing, both for himself and her, that he
can do. I told him so only yesterday. But I'm very sorry for the little
girl, though. I wish I'd never spoken about it, that I do! but it was
like a prophecy, wasn't it?'

Roger tried hard to find out a reasonable and right method of comfort,
for he, too, in his way, was sorry for the girl, who bravely struggled
to be cheerful, in spite of her own private grief, for his mother's
sake. He felt as if high principle and noble precept ought to perform
an immediate work. But they do not, for there is always the unknown
quantity of individual experience and feeling, which offer a tacit
resistance, the amount incalculable by another, to all good counsel and
high decree. But the bond between the Mentor and his Telemachus
strengthened every day. He endeavoured to lead her out of morbid
thought into interest in other than personal things; and, naturally
enough, his own objects of interest came readiest to hand. She felt
that he did her good, she did not know why or how; but after a talk
with him, she always fancied that she had got the clue to goodness and
peace, whatever befell.




CHAPTER XII

PREPARING FOR THE WEDDING


Meanwhile the love-affairs between the middle-aged couple were
prospering well, after a fashion; after the fashion that they liked
best, although it might probably have appeared dull and prosaic to
younger people. Lord Cumnor had come down in great glee at the news he
had heard from his wife at the Towers. He, too, seemed to think he had
taken an active part in bringing about the match by only speaking about
it. His first words on the subject to Lady Cumnor were,--

'I told you so. Now didn't I say what a good, suitable thing this
affair between Gibson and Clare would be! I don't know when I have been
so much pleased. You may despise the trade of match-maker, my lady, but
I am very proud of it. After this, I shall go on looking out for
suitable cases among the middle-aged people of my acquaintance. I
shan't meddle with young folks, they are so apt to be fanciful; but I
have been so successful in this, that I do think it is a good
encouragement to go on.'

'Go on--with what?' asked Lady Cumnor, drily.

'Oh, planning--You can't deny that I planned this match.'

'I don't think you are likely to do either much good or harm by
planning,' she replied, with cool, good sense.

'It puts it into people's heads, my dear.'

'Yes, if you speak about your plans to them, of course it does. But in
this case you never spoke to either Mr. Gibson, or Clare, did you?'

All at once the recollection of how Clare had come upon the passage in
Lord Cumnor's letter flashed on his lady, but she did not say anything
about it, but left her husband to flounder about as best he might.

'No! I never spoke to them; of course not.'

'Then you must be strongly mesmeric, and your will acted upon theirs,
if you are to take credit for any part in the affair,' continued his
pitiless wife.

'I really can't say. It's no use looking back to what I said or did.
I'm very well satisfied with it, and that's enough, and I mean to show
them how much I'm pleased. I shall give Clare something towards her
rigging out, and they shall have a breakfast at Ashcombe Manor-house.
I'll write to Preston about it. When did you say they were to be
married?'

'I think they'd better wait till Christmas, and I have told them so. It
would amuse the children, going over to Ashcombe for the wedding; and
if it's bad weather during the holidays I'm always afraid of their
finding it dull at the Towers. It's very different if it's a good
frost, and they can go out skating and sledging in the park. But these
last two years it has been so wet for them, poor dears!'

'And will the other poor dears be content to wait to make a holiday for
your grandchildren? "To make a Roman holiday." Pope, or somebody else,
had a line of poetry like that. "To make a Roman holiday,"'--he
repeated, pleased with his unusual aptitude at quotation.

'It's Byron, and it's nothing to do with the subject in hand. I'm
surprised at your lordship's quoting Byron,--he was a very immoral
poet.'

'I saw him take his oaths in the House of Lords,' said Lord Cumnor,
apologetically.

'Well! the less said about him the better,' said Lady Cumnor. 'I have
told Clare that she had better not think of being married before
Christmas; and it won't do for her to give up her school in a hurry
either.'

But Clare did not intend to wait till Christmas; and for this once she
carried her point against the will of the countess, and without many
words, or any open opposition. She had a harder task in setting aside
Mr. Gibson's desire to have Cynthia over for the wedding, even if she
went back to her school at Boulogne directly after the ceremony. At
first she had said that it would be delightful, a charming plan; only
she feared that she must give up her own wishes to have her child near
her at such a time, on account of the expense of the double journey.

But Mr. Gibson, economical as he was in his habitual expenditure, had a
really generous heart. He had already shown it, in entirely
relinquishing his future wife's life-interest in the very small
property the late Mr. Kirkpatrick had left, in favour of Cynthia; while
he arranged that she should come to his home as a daughter as soon as
she left the school she was at. The life-interest was about thirty
pounds a year. Now he gave Mrs. Kirkpatrick three five-pound notes,
saying that he hoped they would do away with the objections to
Cynthia's coming over to the wedding; and at the time Mrs Kirkpatrick
felt as if they would, and caught the reflection of his strong wish,
and fancied it was her own. If the letter could have been written and
the money sent off that day while the reflected glow of affection
lasted, Cynthia would have been bridesmaid to her mother. But a hundred
little interruptions came in the way of letter-writing; and by the next
day maternal love had diminished; and the value affixed to the money
had increased: money had been so much needed, so hardly earned in Mrs.
Kirkpatrick's life; while the perhaps necessary separation of mother
and child had lessened the amount of affection the former had to
bestow. So she persuaded herself, afresh, that it would be unwise to
disturb Cynthia at her studies; to interrupt the fulfilment of her
duties just after the _semestre_ had begun afresh; and she wrote a
letter to Madame Lefevre so well imbued with this persuasion, that an
answer which was almost an echo of her words was returned, the sense of
which being conveyed to Mr. Gibson, who was no great French scholar,
settled the vexed question, to his moderate but unfeigned regret. But
the fifteen pounds were not returned. Indeed, not merely that sum, but
a great part of the hundred which Lord Cumnor had given her for her
trousseau, was required to pay off debts at Ashcombe; for the school
had been anything but flourishing since Mrs. Kirkpatrick had had it. It
was really very much to her credit that she preferred clearing herself
from debt to purchasing wedding finery. But it was one of the few
points to be respected in Mrs. Kirkpatrick that she had always been
careful in payment to the shops where she dealt; it was a little sense
of duty cropping out. Whatever other faults might arise from her
superficial and flimsy character, she was always uneasy till she was
out of debt. Yet she had no scruple in appropriating her future
husband's money to her own use, when it was decided that it was not to
be employed as he intended. What new articles she bought for herself,
were all such as would make a show, and an impression upon the ladies
of Hollingford. She argued with herself that linen, and all
underclothing, would never be seen, while she knew that every gown she
had, would give rise to much discussion and would be counted up in the
little town.

So her stock of underclothing was very small, and scarcely any of it
new; but it was made of dainty material, and was finely mended up by
her deft fingers, many a night long after her pupils were in bed;
inwardly resolving all the time she sewed, that hereafter some one else
should do her plain-work. Indeed, many a little circumstance of former
subjection to the will of others rose up before her during these quiet
hours, as an endurance or a suffering never to occur again. So apt are
people to look forward to a different kind of life from that to which
they have been accustomed, as being free from care and trial! She
recollected how, one time during this very summer at the Towers, after
she was engaged to Mr. Gibson, when she had taken above an hour to
arrange her hair in some new mode carefully studied from Mrs. Bradley's
fashion-book--after all, when she came down, looking her very best, as
she thought, and ready for her lover, Lady Cumnor had sent her back
again to her room, just as if she had been a little child, to do her
hair over again, and not to make such a figure of fun of herself!
Another time she had been sent to change her gown for one in her
opinion far less becoming, but which suited Lady Cumnor's taste better.
These were little things; but they were late samples of what in
different shapes she had had to endure for many years; and her liking
for Mr. Gibson grew in proportion to her sense of the evils from which
he was going to serve as a means of escape. After all, that interval of
hope and plain-sewing, intermixed though it was by tuition, was not
disagreeable. Her wedding-dress was secure. Her former pupils at the
Towers were going to present her with that; they were to dress her from
head to foot on the auspicious day. Lord Cumnor, as has been said, had
given her a hundred pounds for her trousseau, and had sent Mr. Preston
a _carte-blanche_ order for the wedding-breakfast in the old hall in
Ashcombe Manor-house. Lady Cumnor--a little put out by the marriage not
being deferred till her grandchildren's Christmas holidays--had
nevertheless given Mrs. Kirkpatrick an excellent English-made watch and
chain; more clumsy but more serviceable than the little foreign
elegance that had hung at her side so long, and misled her so often.

Her preparations were thus in a very considerable state of forwardness,
while Mr. Gibson had done nothing as yet towards any new arrangement or
decoration of his house for his intended bride. He knew he ought to do
something. But what? Where to begin, when so much was out of order, and
he had so little time for superintendence? At length he came to the
wise decision of asking one of the Miss Brownings to take the trouble
of preparing all that was immediately requisite in his house, for old
friendship's sake; and resolved to leave all the more ornamental
decorations that he proposed, to the taste of his future wife. But
before making his request to the Miss Brownings he had to tell them of
his engagement, which had hitherto been kept a secret from the
townspeople, who had set down his frequent visits at the Towers to the
score of the countess's health. He felt how he should have laughed in
his sleeve at any middle-aged widower who came to him with a confession
of the kind he had now to make to the Miss Brownings, and disliked the
idea of the necessary call: but it was to be done, so one evening he
went in 'promiscuous,' as they called it, and told them his story. At
the end of the first chapter--that is to say, at the end of the story
of Mr. Coxe's calf-love, Miss Browning held up her hands in surprise.

'To think of Molly, as I have held in long-clothes, coming to have a
lover! Well, to be sure! Sister Phoebe--' (she was just coming into the
room), 'here's a piece of news! Molly Gibson has got a lover! One may
almost say she's had an offer! Mr. Gibson, may not one?--and she's but
sixteen!'

'Seventeen, sister,' said Miss Phoebe, who piqued herself on knowing
all about dear Mr. Gibson's domestic affairs. 'Seventeen, the 22nd of
last June.'

'Well, have it your own way. Seventeen, if you like to call her so!'
said Miss Browning, impatiently. 'The fact is still the same--she's got
a lover; and it seems to me she was in long-clothes only yesterday.'

'I'm sure I hope her course of true love will run smooth,' said Miss
Phoebe.

Now Mr. Gibson came in; for his story was not half told, and he did not
want them to run away too far with the idea of Molly's love-affair.

'Molly knows nothing about it. I haven't even named it to any one but
you two, and to one other friend. I trounced Coxe well, and did my best
to keep his attachment--as he calls it--in bounds. But I was sadly
puzzled what to do about Molly. Miss Eyre was away, and I couldn't
leave them in the house together without any older woman.'

'Oh, Mr. Gibson! why did you not send her to us?' broke in Miss
Browning. 'We would have done anything in our power for you; for your
sake, as well as her poor dear mother's.'

'Thank you. I know you would, but it wouldn't have done to have had her
in Hollingford, just at the time of Coxe's effervescence. He's better
now. His appetite has come back with double force, after the fasting he
thought it right to exhibit. He had three helpings of blackcurrant
dumpling yesterday.'

'I am sure you are most liberal, Mr. Gibson. Three helpings! And, I
daresay, butcher's meat in proportion?'

'Oh! I only named it because, with such very young men, it's generally
see-saw between appetite and love, and I thought the third helping a
very good sign. But still, you know, what has happened once, may happen
again.'

'I don't know. Phoebe had an offer of marriage once--' said Miss
Browning.

'Hush! sister. It might hurt his feelings to have it spoken about.'

'Nonsense, child! It's five-and-twenty years ago; and his eldest
daughter is married herself.'

'I own he has not been constant,' pleaded Miss Phoebe, in her tender,
piping voice. 'All men are not--like you, Mr Gibson--faithful to the
memory of their first love.'

Mr. Gibson winced. Jeanie was his first love; but her name had never
been breathed in Hollingford. His wife--good, pretty, sensible, and
beloved as she had been--was not his second; no, nor his third love.
And now he was come to make a confidence about his second marriage.

'Well, well,' said he; 'at any rate, I thought I must do something to
protect Molly from such affairs while she was so young, and before I
had given my sanction. Miss Eyre's little nephew fell ill of scarlet
fever--'

'Ah! by-the-by, how careless of me not to inquire. How is the poor
little fellow?'

'Worse--better. It doesn't signify to what I've got to say now; the
fact was, Miss Eyre couldn't come back to my house for some time, and I
cannot leave Molly altogether at Hamley.'

'Ah! I see now, why there was that sudden visit to Hamley. Upon my
word, it's quite a romance.'

'I do like hearing of a love-affair,' murmured Miss Phoebe.

'Then if you'll let me get on with my story, you shall hear of mine,'
said Mr. Gibson, quite beyond his patience with their constant
interruptions.

'Yours!' said Miss Phoebe, faintly.

'Bless us and save us!' said Miss Browning, with less sentiment in her
tone; 'what next?'

'My marriage, I hope,' said Mr. Gibson, choosing to take her expression
of intense surprise literally. 'And that's what I came to speak to you
about.'

A little hope darted up in Miss Phoebe's breast. She had often said to
her sister, in the confidence of curling-time (ladies wore curls in
those days), 'that the only man who could ever bring her to think of
matrimony was Mr. Gibson; but that if he ever proposed, she should feel
bound to accept him, for poor dear Mary's sake;' never explaining what
exact style of satisfaction she imagined she should give to her dead
friend by marrying her late husband. Phoebe played nervously with the
strings of her black silk apron. Like the Caliph in the Eastern story,
a whole lifetime of possibilities passed through her mind in an
instant, of which possibilities the question of questions was, Could
she leave her sister? Attend, Phoebe, to the present moment, and listen
to what is being said before you distress yourself with a perplexity
which will never arise.

'Of course it has been an anxious thing for me to decide who I should
ask to be the mistress of my family, the mother of my girl; but I think
I've decided rightly at last. The lady I have chosen--'

'Tell us at once who she is, there's a good man,' said straightforward
Miss Browning.

'Mrs. Kirkpatrick,' said the bridegroom elect.

'What! the governess at the Towers, that the countess makes so much
of?'

'Yes; she is much valued by them--and deservedly so. She keeps a school
now at Ashcombe, and is accustomed to housekeeping. She has brought up
the young ladies at the Towers, and has a daughter of her own,
therefore it is probable she will have a kind, motherly feeling towards
Molly.'

'She's a very elegant-looking woman,' said Miss Phoebe, feeling it
incumbent upon her to say something laudatory, by way of concealing the
thoughts that had just been passing through her mind. 'I've seen her in
the carriage, riding backwards with the countess; a very pretty woman,
I should say.'

'Nonsense, sister,' said Miss Browning. 'What has her elegance or
prettiness to do with the affair? Did you ever know a widower marry
again for such trifles as those? It's always from a sense of duty of
one kind or another--isn't it, Mr. Gibson? They want a housekeeper; or
they want a mother for their children; or they think their last wife
would have liked it.'

Perhaps the thought had passed through the elder sister's mind that
Phoebe might have been chosen for there was a sharp acrimony in her
tone; not unfamiliar to Mr. Gibson, but with which he did not choose to
cope at this present moment.

'You must have it your own way, Miss Browning. Settle my motives for
me. I don't pretend to be quite clear about them myself. But I am clear
in wishing heartily to keep my old friends, and for them to love my
future wife for my sake. I don't know any two women in the world,
except Molly and Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I regard as much as I do you.
Besides, I want to ask you if you will let Molly come and stay with you
till after my marriage?'

'You might have asked us before you asked Madam Hamley,' said Miss
Browning, only half mollified. 'We are your old friends; and we were
her mother's friends, too; though we are not county folk.'

'That's unjust,' said Mr. Gibson. 'And you know it is.'

'I don't know. You are always with Lord Hollingford, when you can get
at him, much more than you ever are with Mr. Goodenough, or Mr Smith.
And you are always going over to Hamley.'

Miss Browning was not one to give in all at once.

'I seek Lord Hollingford as I should seek such a man, whatever his rank
or position might be: usher to a school, carpenter, shoemaker, if it
were possible for them to have had a similar character of mind
developed by similar advantages. Mr. Goodenough is a very clever
attorney, with strong local interests and not a thought beyond.'

'Well, well, don't go on arguing, it always gives me a headache, as
Phoebe knows. I didn't mean what I said, that's enough, isn't it? I'll
retract anything sooner than be reasoned with. Where were we before you
began your arguments?'

'About dear little Molly coming to pay us a visit,' said Miss Phoebe.

'I should have asked you at first, only Coxe was so rampant with his
love. I didn't know what he might do, or how troublesome he might be
both to Molly and you. But he has cooled down now. Absence has had a
very tranquillizing effect, and I think Molly may be in the same town
with him, without any consequences beyond a few sighs every time she's
brought to his mind by meeting her. And I've got another favour to ask
of you, so you see it would never do for me to argue with you, Miss
Browning, when I ought to be a humble suppliant. Something must be done
to the house to make it all ready for the future Mrs. Gibson. It wants
painting and papering shamefully, and I should think some new
furniture, but I'm sure I don't know what. Would you be so very kind as
to look over the place, and see how far a hundred pounds will go? The
dining-room walls must be painted; we'll keep the drawing-room paper
for her choice, and I've a little spare money for that room for her to
lay out; but all the rest of the house I'll leave to you, if you'll
only be kind enough to help an old friend.'

This was a commission which exactly gratified Miss Browning's love of
power. The disposal of money involved patronage of tradespeople, such
as she had exercised in her father's lifetime, but had had very little
chance of showing since his death. Her usual good-humour was quite
restored by this proof of confidence in her taste and economy, while
Miss Phoebe's imagination dwelt rather on the pleasure of a visit from
Molly.




CHAPTER XIII

MOLLY GIBSON'S NEW FRIENDS


Time was speeding on; it was now the middle of August,--if anything was
to be done to the house, it must be done at once. Indeed, in several
ways Mr. Gibson's arrangements with Miss Browning had not been made too
soon. The squire had heard that Osborne might probably return home for
a few days before going abroad; and, though the growing intimacy
between Roger and Molly did not alarm him in the least, yet he was
possessed by a very hearty panic lest the heir might take a fancy to
the surgeon's daughter; and he was in such a fidget for her to leave
the house before Osborne came home, that his wife lived in constant
terror lest he should make it too obvious to their visitor.

Every young girl of seventeen or so, who is at all thoughtful, is very
apt to make a Pope out of the first person who presents to her a new or
larger system of duty than that by which she has been unconsciously
guided hitherto. Such a Pope was Roger to Molly; she looked to his
opinion, to his authority on almost every subject, yet he had only said
one or two things in a terse manner which gave them the force of
precepts--stable guides to her conduct, and had shown the natural
superiority in wisdom and knowledge which is sure to exist between a
highly educated young man of no common intelligence, and an ignorant
girl of seventeen, who yet was well capable of appreciation. Still,
although they were drawn together in this very pleasant relationship,
each was imagining some one very different for the future owner of
their whole heart--their highest and completest love. Roger looked to
find a grand woman, his equal, and his empress; beautiful in person,
serene in wisdom, ready for counsel, as was Egeria. Molly's little
wavering maiden fancy dwelt on the unseen Osborne, who was now a
troubadour, and now a knight, such as he wrote about in one of his own
poems; some one like Osborne, perhaps, rather than Osborne himself, for
she shrank from giving a personal form and name to the hero that was to
be. The squire was not unwise in wishing her well out of the house
before Osborne came home, if he was considering her peace of mind. Yet,
when she went away from the hall he missed her constantly; it had been
so pleasant to have her there daily fulfilling all the pretty offices
of a daughter; cheering the meals, so often _tete-a-tete_ betwixt him
and Roger, with her innocent wise questions, her lively interest in
their talk, her merry replies to his banter.

And Roger missed her too. Sometimes her remarks had probed into his
mind, and excited him to the deep thought in which he delighted; at
other times he had felt himself of real help to her in her hours of
need, and in making her take an interest in books, which treated of
higher things than the continual fiction and poetry which she had
hitherto read. He felt something like an affectionate tutor who was
suddenly deprived of his most promising pupil; he wondered how she
would go on without him; whether she would be puzzled and disheartened
by the books he had lent her to read; how she and her stepmother would
get along together? She occupied his thoughts a good deal those first
few days after she left the hall. Mrs. Hamley regretted her more, and
longer than did the other two. She had given her the place of a
daughter in her heart; and now she missed the sweet feminine
companionship, the playful caresses, the never-ceasing attentions; the
very need of sympathy in her sorrows, that Molly had shown so openly
from time to time; all these things had extremely endeared her to the
tenderhearted Mrs. Hamley.

Molly, too, felt the change of atmosphere keenly; and she blamed
herself for so feeling even more keenly still. But she could not help
having a sense of refinement, which had made her appreciate the whole
manner of being at the Hall. By her dear old friends the Miss Brownings
she was petted and caressed so much that she became ashamed of noticing
the coarser and louder tones in which they spoke, the provincialism of
their pronunciation, the absence of interest in things, and their
greediness of details about persons. They asked her questions which she
was puzzled enough to answer about her future stepmother; her loyalty
to her father forbidding her to reply fully and truthfully. She was
always glad when they began to make inquiries as to every possible
affair at the Hall. She had been so happy there; she liked them all,
down to the very dogs, so thoroughly, that it was easy work replying:
she did not mind telling them everything, even to the style of Mrs.
Hamley's invalid dress; nor what wine the squire drank at dinner.
Indeed, talking about these things helped her to recall the happiest
time in her life. But one evening, as they were all sitting together
after tea in the little upstairs drawing-room, looking into the High
Street--Molly discoursing away on the various pleasures of Hamley Hall,
and just then telling of all Roger's wisdom in natural science, and
some of the curiosities he had shown her, she was suddenly pulled up by
this little speech,--

'You seem to have seen a great deal of Mr. Roger, Molly!' said Miss
Browning, in a way intended to convey a great deal of meaning to her
sister and none at all to Molly. But,--

    'The man recovered of the bite;
     The dog it was that died.'

Molly was perfectly aware of Miss Browning's emphatic tone, though at
first she was perplexed as to its cause; while Miss Phoebe was just
then too much absorbed in knitting the heel of her stocking to be fully
alive to her sister's nods and winks.

'Yes; he was very kind to me,' said Molly, slowly, pondering over Miss
Browning's manner, and unwilling to say more until she had satisfied
herself to what the question tended.

'I dare say you will soon be going to Hamley Hall again? He's not the
eldest son, you know, Phoebe! Don't make my head ache with your eternal
"eighteen, nineteen," but attend to the conversation. Molly is telling
us how much she saw of Mr. Roger, and how kind he was to her. I've
always heard he was a very nice young man, my dear. Tell us some more
about him! Now, Phoebe, attend! How was he kind to you, Molly?'

'Oh, he told me what books to read; and one day he made me notice how
many bees I saw--'

'Bees, child! What do you mean? Either you or he must have been crazy!'

'No, not at all. There are more than two hundred kinds of bees in
England, and he wanted me to notice the difference between them and
flies. Miss Browning, I can't help seeing what you fancy,' said Molly,
as red as fire, 'but it is very wrong; it is all a mistake. I won't
speak another word about Mr. Roger or Hamley at all, if it puts such
silly notions into your head.'

'Highty-tighty! Here's a young lady to be lecturing her elders! Silly
notions, indeed! They are in your head, it seems. And let me tell you,
Molly, you are too young to let your mind be running on lovers.'

Molly had been once or twice called saucy and impertinent, and
certainly a little sauciness came out now.

'I never said what the "silly notion" was, Miss Browning; did I now,
Miss Phoebe? Don't you see, dear Miss Phoebe, it is all her own
interpretation, and according to her own fancy, this foolish talk about
lovers?'

Molly was flaming with indignation; but she had appealed to the wrong
person for justice. Miss Phoebe tried to make peace after the fashion
of weak-minded persons, who would cover over the unpleasant sight of a
sore, instead of trying to heal it.

'I'm sure I don't know anything about it, my dear. It seems to me that
what Sally was saying was very true--very true indeed; and I think,
love, you misunderstood her; or, perhaps, she misunderstood you; or I
may be misunderstanding it altogether; so we'd better not talk any more
about it. What price did you say you were going to give for the drugget
in Mr. Gibson's dining-room, sister?'

So Miss Browning and Molly went on till evening, each chafed and angry
with the other. They wished each other good-night, going through the
usual forms in the coolest manner possible. Molly went up to her little
bedroom, clean and neat as a bedroom could be, with draperies of small
delicate patchwork--bed-curtains, window-curtains, and counter-pane; a
japanned _toilette_-table, full of little boxes, with a small looking-
glass affixed to it, that distorted every face that was so unwise as to
look in it. This room had been to the child one of the most dainty and
luxurious places ever seen, in comparison with her own bare, white-
dimity bedroom; and now she was sleeping in it, as a guest, and all the
quaint adornments she had once peeped at as a great favour, as they
were carefully wrapped up in cap-paper, were set out for her use. And
yet how little she had deserved this hospitable care; how impertinent
she had been; how cross she had felt ever since! She was crying tears
of penitence and youthful misery when there came a low tap to the door.
Molly opened it, and there stood Miss Browning, in a wonderful erection
of a nightcap, and scantily attired in a coloured calico jacket over
her scrimpy and short white petticoat.

'I was afraid you were asleep, child,' said she, coming in and shutting
the door. 'But I wanted to say to you we've got wrong to-day, somehow;
and I think it was perhaps my doing. It's as well Phoebe shouldn't
know, for she thinks me perfect; and when there's only two of us, we
get along better if one of us thinks the other can do no wrong. But I
rather think I was a little cross. We'll not say any more about it,
Molly; only we'll go to sleep friends,--and friends we'll always be,
child, won't we? Now give me a kiss, and don't cry and swell your eyes
up;--and put out your candle carefully.'

'I was wrong--it was my fault,' said Molly, kissing her.

'Fiddlestick-ends! Don't contradict me! I say it was my fault, and I
won't hear another word about it.'

The next day Molly went with Miss Browning to see the changes going on
in her father's house. To her they were but dismal improvements. The
faint grey of the dining-room walls, which had harmonized well enough
with the deep crimson of the moreen curtains, and which when well
cleaned looked thinly coated rather than dirty, was now exchanged for a
pink salmon-colour of a very glowing hue; and the new curtains were of
that pale sea-green just coming into fashion. 'Very bright and pretty,'
Miss Browning called it; and in the first renewing of their love Molly
could not bear to contradict her. She could only hope that the green
and brown drugget would tone down the brightness and prettiness. There
was scaffolding here, scaffolding there, and Betty scolding everywhere.

'Come up now, and see your papa's bedroom. He's sleeping upstairs in
yours, that everything may be done up afresh in his.'

Molly could just remember, in faint clear lines of distinctness, the
being taken into this very room to bid farewell to her dying mother.
She could see the white linen, the white muslin, surrounding the pale,
wan wistful face, with the large, longing eyes, yearning for one more
touch of the little soft warm child, whom she was too feeble to clasp
in her arms, already growing numb in death. Many a time when Molly had
been in this room since that sad day, had she seen in vivid fancy that
same wan wistful face lying on the pillow, the outline of the form
beneath the clothes; and the girl had not shrunk from such visions, but
rather cherished them, as preserving to her the remembrance of her
mother's outward semblance. Her eyes were full of tears, as she
followed Miss Browning into this room to see it under its new aspect.
Nearly everything was changed--the position of the bed and the colour
of the furniture; there was a grand _toilette_-table now, with a glass
upon it, instead of the primitive substitute of the top of a chest of
drawers, with a mirror above upon the wall, sloping downwards; these
latter things had served her mother during her short married life.

'You see we must have all in order for a lady who has passed so much of
her time in the countess's mansion,' said Miss Browning, who was now
quite reconciled to the marriage, thanks to the pleasant employment of
furnishing that had devolved upon her in consequence. 'Cromer, the
upholsterer, wanted to persuade me to have a sofa and a writing-table.
These men will say anything is the fashion, if they want to sell an
article. I said, "No, no, Cromer: bedrooms are for sleeping in, and
sitting-rooms are for sitting in. Keep everything to its right purpose,
and don't try and delude me into nonsense." Why, my mother would have
given us a fine scolding if she had ever caught us in our bedrooms in
the daytime. We kept our outdoor things in a closet downstairs; and
there was a very tidy place for washing our hands, which is as much as
one wants in the day-time. Stuffing up a bedroom with sofas and tables!
I never heard of such a thing. Besides, a hundred pounds won't last for
ever. I shan't be able to do anything for your room, Molly!'

'I'm right down glad of it,' said Molly. 'Nearly everything in it was
what mamma had when she lived with my great-uncle. I wouldn't have had
it changed for the world; I am so fond of it.'

'Well, there's no danger of it, now the money is run out. By the way,
Molly, who's to buy you a bridesmaid's dress?'

'I don't know,' said Molly;'I suppose I am to be a bridesmaid; but no
one has spoken to me about my dress.'

'Then I shall ask your papa.'

'Please, don't. He must have to spend a great deal of money just now.
Besides, I would rather not be at the wedding, if they'll let me stay
away.'

'Nonsense, child. Why, all the town would be talking of it. You must
go, and you must be well dressed, for your father's sake.'

But Mr. Gibson had thought of Molly's dress, although he had said
nothing about it to her. He had commissioned his future wife to get her
what was requisite; and presently a very smart dressmaker came over
from the county-town to try on a dress, which was both so simple and so
elegant as at once to charm Molly. When it came home all ready to put
on, Molly had a private dressing-up for the Miss Brownings' benefit;
and she was almost startled when she looked into the glass, and saw the
improvement in her appearance. 'I wonder if I'm pretty,' thought she.
'I almost think I am--in this kind of dress I mean, of course. Betty
would say, "Fine feathers make fine birds."'

When she went downstairs in her bridal attire, and with shy blushes
presented herself for inspection, she was greeted with a burst of
admiration.

'Well, upon my word! I shouldn't have known you.' ('Fine feathers,'
thought Molly, and checked her rising vanity.)

'You are really beautiful--isn't she, sister?' said Miss Phoebe. 'Why,
my dear, if you were always dressed, you would be prettier than your
dear mamma, whom we always reckoned so very personable.'

'You're not a bit like her. You favour your father, and white always
sets off a brown complexion.'

'But isn't she beautiful?' persevered Miss Phoebe.

'Well! and if she is, Providence made her, and not she herself.
Besides, the dressmaker must go shares. What a fine India muslin it is!
it'll have cost a pretty penny!'

Mr. Gibson and Molly drove over to Ashcombe, the night before the
wedding, in the one yellow post-chaise that Hollingford possessed. They
were to be Mr. Preston's, or, rather, my lord's, guests at the Manor-
house. The Manor-house came up to its name, and delighted Molly at
first sight. It was built of stone, had many gables and mullioned
windows, and was covered over with Virginian creeper and late-blowing
roses. Molly did not know Mr. Preston, who stood in the doorway to
greet her father. She took standing with him as a young lady at once,
and it was the first time she had met with the kind of behaviour--half
complimentary, half flirting--which some men think it necessary to
assume with every woman under five-and-twenty. Mr Preston was very
handsome, and knew it. He was a fair man, with light-brown hair and
whiskers; grey, roving, well-shaped eyes, with lashes darker than his
hair; and a figure rendered easy and supple by the athletic exercises
in which his excellence was famous, and which had procured him
admission into much higher society than he was otherwise entitled to
enter. He was a capital cricketer; was so good a shot, that any house
desirous of reputation for its bags on the 12th or the 1st, was glad to
have him for a guest. He taught young ladies to play billiards on a wet
day, or went in for the game in serious earnest when required, He knew
half the private theatrical plays off by heart, and was invaluable in
arranging impromptu charades and tableaux. He had his own private
reasons for wishing to get up a flirtation with Molly just at this
time; he had amused himself so much with the widow when she first came
to Ashcombe, that he fancied that the sight of him, standing by her
less polished, less handsome, middle-aged husband, might be too much of
a contrast to be agreeable. Besides, he had really a strong passion for
some one else; some one who would be absent; and that passion it was
necessary for him to conceal. So that, altogether, he had resolved,
even had 'the little Gibson-girl' (as he called her) been less
attractive than she was, to devote himself to her for the next sixteen
hours.

They were taken by their host into a wainscoted parlour, where a wood
fire crackled and burnt, and the crimson curtains shut out the waning
day and the outer chill. Here the table was laid for dinner; snowy
table-linen, bright silver, clear sparkling glass, wine and an autumnal
dessert on the sideboard. Yet Mr. Preston kept apologizing to Molly for
the rudeness of his bachelor home, for the smallness of the room, the
great dining-room being already appropriated by his housekeeper, in
preparation for the morrow's breakfast. And then he rang for a servant
to show Molly to her room. She was taken into a most comfortable
chamber: a wood fire on the hearth, candles lighted on the _toilette_-
table, dark woollen curtains surrounding a snow-white bed, great vases
of china standing here and there.

'This is my Lady Harriet's room when her ladyship comes to the Manor-
house with my lord the earl,' said the housemaid, striking out
thousands of brilliant sparks by a well-directed blow at a smouldering
log. 'Shall I help you to dress, miss? I always helps her ladyship.'

Molly, quite aware of the fact that she had but her white muslin gown
for the wedding besides that she had on, dismissed the good woman, and
was thankful to be left to herself.

'Dinner' was it called? Why it was nearly eight o'clock; and
preparations for bed seemed a more natural employment than dressing at
this hour of night. All the dressing she could manage was the placing
of a red damask rose or two in the band of her grey stuff gown, there
being a great nosegay of choice autumnal flowers on the _toilette_-
table. She did try the effect of another crimson rose in her black
hair, just above her ear; it was very pretty, but too coquettish, and
so she put it back again. The dark-oak panels and wainscoting of the
whole house seemed to glow in warm light; there were so many fires in
different rooms, in the hall, and even one on the landing of the
staircase. Mr. Preston must have heard her step, for he met her in the
hall, and led her into a small drawing-room, with closed folding-doors
on one side, opening into the larger drawing-room, as he told her. This
room into which she entered reminded her a little of Hamley--yellow-
satin upholstery of seventy or a hundred years ago, all delicately kept
and scrupulously clean; great Indian cabinets, and china jars, emitting
spicy odours; a large blazing fire, before which her father stood in
his morning dress, grave and thoughtful, as he had been all day.

'This room is that which Lady Harriet uses when she comes here with her
father for a day or two,' said Mr. Preston. And Molly tried to save her
father by being ready to talk herself.

'Does she often come here?'

'Not often. But I fancy she likes being here when she does. Perhaps she
finds it an agreeable change after the more formal life she leads at
the Towers.'

'I should think it was a very pleasant house to stay at,' said Molly,
remembering the look of warm comfort that pervaded it. But a little to
her dismay Mr. Preston seemed to take it as a compliment to himself.

'I was afraid a young lady like you might perceive all the
incongruities of a bachelor's home. I am very much obliged to you, Miss
Gibson. In general I live pretty much in the room in which we shall
dine; and I have a sort of agent's office in which I keep books and
papers, and receive callers on business.'

Then they went in to dinner. Molly thought everything that was served
was delicious, and cooked to the point of perfection; but they did not
seem to satisfy Mr. Preston, who apologized to his guests several times
for the bad cooking of this dish, or the omission of a particular sauce
to that; always referring to bachelor's housekeeping, bachelor's this
and bachelor's that, till Molly grew quite impatient at the word. Her
father's depression, which was still continuing and rendering him very
silent, made her uneasy; yet she wished to conceal it from Mr. Preston;
and so she talked away, trying to obviate the sort of personal bearing
which their host would give to everything. She did not know when to
leave the gentlemen, but her father made a sign to her; and she was
conducted back to the yellow drawing-room by Mr. Preston, who made many
apologies for leaving her there alone. She enjoyed herself extremely,
however, feeling at liberty to prowl about, and examine all the
curiosities the room contained. Among other things was a Louis Quinze
cabinet with lovely miniatures in enamel let into the fine woodwork.
She carried a candle to it, and was looking intently at these faces
when her father and Mr. Preston came in. Her father looked still
careworn and anxious; he came up and patted her on the back, looked at
what she was looking at, and then went off to silence and the fire. Mr.
Preston took the candle out of her hand, and threw himself into her
interests with an air of ready gallantry.

'That is said to be Mademoiselle de St Quentin, a great beauty at the
French Court. This is Madame du Barri. Do you see any likeness in
Mademoiselle de St Quentin to any one you know?' He had lowered his
voice a little as he asked this question.

'No!' said Molly, looking at it again. 'I never saw any one half so
beautiful.'

'But don't you see a likeness--in the eyes particularly?' he asked
again, with some impatience.

Molly tried hard to find out a resemblance, and was again unsuccessful.

'It constantly reminds me of--of Miss Kirkpatrick.'

'Does it?' said Molly, eagerly. 'Oh! I am so glad--I've never seen her,
so of course I couldn't find out the likeness. You know her, then, do
you? Please tell me all about her.'

He hesitated a moment before speaking. He smiled a little before
replying.

'She's very beautiful; that of course is understood when I say that
this miniature does not come up to her for beauty.'

'And besides?--Go on, please.'

'What do you mean by "besides"?'

'Oh! I suppose she's very clever and accomplished?'

That was not in the least what Molly wanted to ask; but it was
difficult to word the vague vastness of her unspoken inquiry.

'She is clever naturally; she has picked up accomplishments. But she
has such a charm about her, one forgets what she herself is in the halo
that surrounds her. You ask me all this, Miss Gibson, and I answer
truthfully; or else I should not entertain one young lady with my
enthusiastic praises of another.'

'I don't see why not,' said Molly. 'Besides, if you wouldn't do it in
general, I think you ought to do it in my case; for you, perhaps, don't
know, but she is coming to live with us when she leaves school, and we
are very nearly the same age; so it will be almost like having a
sister.'

'She is to live with you, is she?' said Mr. Preston, to whom this
intelligence was news. 'And when is she to leave school? I thought she
would surely have been at this wedding; but I was told she was not to
come. When is she to leave school?'

'I think it is to be at Easter. You know she's at Boulogne, and it's a
long journey for her to come alone; or else papa wished for her to be
at the marriage very much indeed.'

'And her mother prevented it?--I understand.'

'No, it wasn't her mother; it was the French schoolmistress, who didn't
think it desirable.'

'It comes to pretty much the same thing. And she's to return and live
with you after Easter?'

'I believe so. Is she a grave or a merry person?'

'Never very grave, as far as I have seen of her. Sparkling would be the
word for her, I think. Do you ever write to her? If you do, pray
remember me to her, and tell her how we have been talking about her--
you and I.'

'I never write to her,' said Molly, rather shortly.

Tea came in; and after that they all went to bed, Molly heard her
father exclaim at the fire in his bedroom, and Mr. Preston's reply,--

'I pique myself on my keen relish for all creature comforts, and also
on my power of doing without them, if need be. My lord's woods are
ample, and I indulge myself with a fire in my bedroom for nine months
in the year; yet I could travel in Iceland without wincing from the
cold.'




CHAPTER XIV

MOLLY FINDS HERSELF PATRONIZED


The wedding went off much as such affairs do. Lord Cumnor and Lady
Harriet drove over from the Towers, so the hour for the ceremony was as
late as possible. Lord Cumnor came over to officiate as the bride's
father, and was in more open glee than either bride or bridegroom, or
any one else. Lady Harriet came as a sort of amateur bridesmaid, to
'share Molly's duties,' as she called it. They went from the Manor-
house in two carriages to the church in the park, Mr Preston and Mr.
Gibson in one, and Molly, to her dismay, shut up with Lord Cumnor and
Lady Harriet in the other. Lady Harriet's gown of white muslin had seen
one or two garden-parties, and was not in the freshest order; it had
been rather a freak of the young lady's at the last moment. She was
very merry, and very much inclined to talk to Molly, by way of finding
out what sort of a little personage Clare was to have for her future
daughter. She began,--

'We mustn't crush this pretty muslin dress of yours. Put it over papa's
knee; he doesn't mind it in the least.'

'What, my dear, a white dress!--no, to be sure not. I rather like it.
Besides, going to a wedding, who minds anything? It would be different
if we were going to a funeral.'

Molly conscientiously strove to find out the meaning of this speech;
but before she had done so, Lady Harriet spoke again, going to the
point, as she always piqued herself on doing.

'I daresay it's something of a trial to you, this second marriage of
your father's; but you'll find Clare the most amiable of women. She
always let me have my own way, and I've no doubt she'll let you have
yours.'

'I mean to try and like her,' said Molly, in a low voice, trying hard
to keep down the tears that would keep rising to her eyes this morning.
'I've seen very little of her yet.'

'Why, it's the very best thing for you that could have happened, my
dear,' said Lord Cumnor. 'You're growing up into a young lady--and a
very pretty young lady, too, if you'll allow an old man to say so--and
who so proper as your father's wife to bring you out, and show you off,
and take you to balls, and that kind of thing? I always said this match
that is going to come off to-day was the most suitable thing I ever
knew; and it's even a better thing for you than for the people
themselves.'

'Poor child!' said Lady Harriet, who had caught a sight of Molly's
troubled face, 'the thought of balls is too much for her just now; but
you'll like having Cynthia Kirkpatrick for a companion, shan't you,
dear?'

'Very much,' said Molly, cheering up a little. 'Do you know her?'

'Oh, I've seen her over and over again when she was a little girl, and
once or twice since. She's the prettiest creature that you ever saw;
and with eyes that mean mischief, if I'm not mistaken. But Clare kept
her spirit under pretty well when she was staying with us,--afraid of
her being troublesome, I fancy.'

Before Molly could shape her next question, they were at the church;
and she and Lady Harriet went into a pew near the door to wait for the
bride, in whose train they were to proceed to the altar. The earl drove
on alone to fetch her from her own house, not a quarter of a mile
distant. It was pleasant to her to be led to the hymeneal altar by a
belted earl, and pleasant to have his daughter as a volunteered
bridesmaid. Mrs. Kirkpatrick in this flush of small gratifications, and
on the brink of matrimony with a man whom she liked, and who would be
bound to support her without any exertion of her own, looked beamingly
happy and handsome. A little cloud came over her face at the sight of
Mr. Preston,--the sweet perpetuity of her smile was rather disturbed as
he followed in Mr. Gibson's wake. But his face never changed; he bowed
to her gravely, and then seemed absorbed in the service. Ten minutes,
and all was over. The bride and bridegroom were driving together to the
Manor-house, Mr. Preston was walking thither by a short cut, and Molly
was again in the carriage with my lord, rubbing his hands and
chuckling, and Lady Harriet, trying to be kind and consolatory, when
her silence would have been the best comfort.

Molly found out, to her dismay, that the plan was for her to return
with Lord Cumnor and Lady Harriet when they went back to the Towers in
the evening. In the meantime Lord Cumnor had business to do with Mr.
Preston, and after the happy couple had driven off on their week's
holiday tour, she was to be left alone with the formidable Lady
Harriet. When they were by themselves after all the others had been
thus disposed of, Lady Harriet sate still over the drawing-room fire,
holding a screen between it and her face, but gazing intently at Molly
for a minute or two. Molly was fully conscious of this prolonged look,
and was trying to get up her courage to return the stare, when Lady
Harriet suddenly said,--

'I like you;--you are a little wild creature, and I want to tame you.
Come here, and sit on this stool by me. What is your name? or what do
they call you?--as North-country people would express it.'

'Molly Gibson. My real name is Mary.'

'Molly is a nice, soft-sounding name. People in the last century
weren't afraid of homely names; now we are all so smart and fine: no
more "Lady Bettys" now. I almost wonder they haven't re-christened all
the worsted and knitting-cotton that bears her name. Fancy Lady
Constantia's cotton, or Lady Anna-Maria's worsted.'

'I didn't know there was a Lady Betty's cotton,' said Molly.

'That proves you don't do fancy-work! You'll find Clare will set you to
it, though. She used to set me at piece after piece: knights kneeling
to ladies; impossible flowers. But I must do her the justice to add
that when I got tired of them she finished them herself. I wonder how
you'll get on together?'

'So do I!' sighed out Molly, under her breath.

'I used to think I managed her, till one day an uncomfortable suspicion
arose that all the time she had been managing me. Still it's easy work
to let oneself be managed; at any rate till one wakens up to the
consciousness of the process, and then it may become amusing, if one
takes it in that light.'

'I should hate to be managed,' said Molly, indignantly. 'I'll try and
do what she wishes for papa's sake, if she'll only tell me outright;
but I should dislike to be trapped into anything.'

'Now I,' said Lady Harriet, 'am too lazy to avoid traps; and I rather
like to remark the cleverness with which they're set. But then of
course I know that, if I choose to exert myself, I can break through
the withes of green flax with which they try to bind me. Now, perhaps,
you won't be able.'

'I don't quite understand what you mean,' said Molly.

'Oh, well--never mind; I daresay it's as well for you that you
shouldn't. The moral of all I have been saying is, "Be a good girl, and
suffer yourself to be led, and you'll find your new stepmother the
sweetest creature imaginable." You'll get on capitally with her, I make
no doubt. How you'll get on with her daughter is another affair; but I
daresay very well. Now we'll ring for tea; for I suppose that heavy
breakfast is to stand for our lunch.'

Mr. Preston came into the room just at this time, and Molly was a
little surprised at Lady Harriet's cool manner of dismissing him,
remembering as she did how Mr. Preston had implied his intimacy with
her ladyship the evening before at dinner-time.

'I cannot bear that sort of person,' said Lady Harriet, almost before
he was out of hearing; 'giving himself airs of gallantry towards one to
whom his simple respect is all his duty. I can talk to one of my
father's labourers with pleasure, while with a man like that underbred
fop I am all over thorns and nettles. What is it the Irish call that
style of creature? They've got some capital word for it, I know. What
is it?'

'I don't know--I never heard it,' said Molly, a little ashamed of her
ignorance.

'Oh! that shows you've never read Miss Edgeworth's tales;--now, have
you? If you had, you'd have recollected that there was such a word,
even if you didn't remember what it was. If you've never read those
stories, they would be just the thing to beguile your solitude--vastly
improving and moral, and yet quite sufficiently interesting. I'll lend
them to you while you're all alone.'

'I'm not alone. I'm not at home, but on a visit to the Miss Brownings.'

'Then I'll bring them to you. I know the Miss Brownings; they used to
come regularly on the school-day to the Towers. Pecksy and Flapsy I
used to call them. I like the Miss Brownings; one gets enough of
respect from them at any rate; and I've always wanted to see the kind
of _menage_ of such people. I'll bring you a whole pile of Miss
Edgeworth's stories, my dear.'

Molly sate quite silent for a minute or two; then she mustered up
courage to speak out what was in her mind.

'Your ladyship' (the title was the firstfruits of the lesson, as Molly
took it, on paying due respect)--'your ladyship keeps speaking of the
sort of--the class of people to which I belong as if it was a kind of
strange animal you were talking about; yet you talk so openly to me
that--'

'Well, go on--I like to hear you.'

Still silence.

'You think me in your heart a little impertinent--now, don't you?' said
Lady Harriet, almost kindly.

Molly held her peace for two or three moments; then she lifted her
beautiful, honest eyes to Lady Harriet's face, and said,--

'Yes!--a little. But I think you a great many other things.'

'We'll leave the "other things" for the present. Don't you see, little
one, I talked after my kind, just as you talk after your kind. It's
only on the surface with both of us. Why, I daresay some of your good
Hollingford ladies talk of the poor people in a manner which they would
consider as impertinent in their turn, if they could hear it. But I
ought to be more considerate when I remember how often my blood has
boiled at the modes of speech and behaviour of one of my aunts, mamma's
sister, Lady--No! I won't name names. Any one who earns his livelihood
by an exercise of head or hands, from professional people and rich
merchants down to labourers, she calls "persons." She would never in
her most slip-slop talk accord them even the conventional title of
"gentlemen;" and the way in which she takes possession of human beings,
"my woman," "my people,"--but, after all, it is only a way of speaking.
I ought not to have used it to you; but somehow I separate you from all
these Hollingford people.'

'But why?' persevered Molly. 'I'm one of them.'

'Yes, you I are. But--now don't reprove me again for impertinence--most
of them are so unnatural in their exaggerated respect and admiration
when they come up to the Towers, and put on so much pretence by way of
fine manners, that they only make themselves objects of ridicule. You
at least are simple and truthful, and that's why I separate you in my
own mind from them, and have talked unconsciously to you as I would--
Well! now here's another piece of impertinence--as I would to my equal--
in rank, I mean; for I don't set myself up in solid things as any better
than my neighbours. Here's tea, however, come in time to stop me from
growing too humble.'

It was a very pleasant little tea in the fading September twilight.
just as it was ended, in came Mr. Preston again.

'Lady Harriet, will you allow me the pleasure of showing you some
alterations I have made in the flower-garden--in which I have tried to
consult your taste--before it grows dark?'

'Thank you, Mr. Preston. I will ride over with papa some day, and we
will see if we approve of them.'

Mr. Preston's brow flushed. But he affected not to perceive Lady
Harriet's haughtiness, and, turning to Molly, he said,--

'Will not you come out, Miss Gibson, and see something of the gardens?
You haven't been out at all, I think, excepting to church.'

Molly did not like the idea of going out for a _tete-a-tete_ walk with
Mr. Preston; yet she pined for a little fresh air, would have liked to
have seen the gardens, and have looked at the Manor-house from
different aspects; and, besides this, much as she recoiled from Mr.
Preston, she felt sorry for him under the repulse he had just received.
While she was hesitating, and slowly tending towards consent, Lady
Harriet spoke,--

'I cannot spare Miss Gibson. If she would like to see the place, I will
bring her over some day myself.'

When he had left the room, Lady Harriet said,--

'I daresay it's my own lazy selfishness has kept you indoors all day
against your will. But, at any rate, you are not to go out walking with
that man. I've an instinctive aversion to him; not entirely instinctive
either; it has some foundation in fact; and I desire you don't allow
him ever to get intimate with you. He's a very clever land-agent, and
does his duty by papa, and I don't choose to be taken up for libel; but
remember what I say!'

Then the carriage came round, and after numberless last words from the
earl--who appeared to have put off every possible direction to the
moment when he stood, like an awkward Mercury, balancing himself on the
step of the carriage--they drove back to the Towers.

'Would you rather come in and dine with us--we should send you home, of
course--or go home straight?' asked Lady Harriet of Molly. She and her
father had both been sleeping till they drew up at the bottom of the
flight of steps.

'Tell the truth, now and evermore. Truth is generally amusing, if it's
nothing else!'

'I would rather go back to Miss Brownings' at once, please,' said
Molly, with a nightmare-like recollection of the last, the only evening
she had spent at the Towers.

Lord Cumnor was standing on the steps, waiting to hand his daughter out
of the carriage. Lady Harriet stopped to kiss Molly on the forehead,
and to say,--

'I shall come some day soon, and bring you a load of Miss Edgeworth's
tales, and make further acquaintance with Pecksy and Flapsy.'

'No, don't, please,' said Molly, taking hold of her, to detain her.
'You must not come--indeed you must not.'

'Why not?'

'Because I would rather not--because I think that I ought not to have
any one coming to see me who laughs at the friends I am staying with,
and calls them names.' Molly's heart beat very fast, but she meant
every word that she said.

'My dear little woman!' said Lady Harriet, bending over her and
speaking quite gravely. 'I'm very sorry to have called them names--
very, very sorry to have hurt you. If I promise you to be respectful to
them in word and deed--and in very thought, if I can--you'll let me
then, won't you?'

Molly hesitated. 'I'd better go home at once; I shall only say wrong
things--and there's Lord Cumnor waiting all this time.'

'Let him alone; he's very well amused hearing all the news of the day
from Brown. Then I shall come--under promise?'

So Molly drove off in solitary grandeur; and Miss Brownings' knocker
was loosened on its venerable hinges by the never-ending peal of Lord
Cumnor's footman.

They were full of welcome, full of curiosity. All through the long day
they had been missing their bright young visitor, and three or four
times in every hour they had been wondering and settling what everybody
was doing at that exact minute. What had become of Molly during all the
afternoon, had been a great perplexity to them; and they were very much
oppressed with a sense of the great honour she had received in being
allowed to spend so many hours _tete-a-tete_ with Lady Harriet. They
were, indeed, more excited by this one fact than by all the details of
the wedding, most of which they had known of beforehand, and talked
over with much perseverance during the day. Molly began to feel as if
there was some foundation for Lady Harriet's inclination to ridicule
the worship paid by the good people of Hollingford to their liege
lords, and to wonder with what tokens of reverence they would receive
Lady Harriet if she came to pay her promised visit. She had never
thought of concealing the probability of this call until this evening;
but now she felt as if it would be better not to speak of the chance,
as she was not at all sure if the promise would be fulfilled.

Before Lady Harriet's call was paid, Molly received another visit.
Roger Hamley came riding over one day with a note from his mother, and
a wasps'-nest as a present from himself. Molly heard his powerful voice
come sounding up the little staircase, as he asked if Miss Gibson was
at home from the servant-maid at the door; and she was half amused and
half annoyed as she thought how this call of his would give colour to
Miss Browning's fancies. 'I would rather never be married at all,'
thought she, 'than marry an ugly man,--and dear good Mr. Roger is
really ugly; I don't think one could even call him plain.' Yet the Miss
Brownings, who did not look upon young men as if their natural costume
was a helmet and a suit of armour, thought Mr. Roger Hamley a very
personable young fellow, as he came into the room, his face flushed
with exercise, his white teeth showing pleasantly in the courteous bow
and smile he gave to all around. He knew the Miss Brownings slightly,
and talked pleasantly to them while Molly read Mrs. Hamley's little
missive of sympathy and good wishes relating to the wedding; then he
turned to her, and though the Miss Brownings listened with all their
ears, they could not find out anything remarkable either in the words
he said or the tone in which they were spoken.

'I've brought you the wasps'-nest I promised you, Miss Gibson. There
has been no lack of such things this year; we've taken seventy-four on
my father's land alone; and one of the labourers, a poor fellow who
ekes out his wages by bee-keeping, has had a sad misfortune--the wasps
have turned the bees out of his seven hives, taken possession, and
eaten up the honey.'

'What greedy little vermin!' said Miss Browning.

Molly saw Roger's eyes twinkle at the misapplication of the word;' but
though he had a strong sense of humour, it never appeared to diminish
his respect for the people who amused him.

'I'm sure they deserve fire and brimstone more than the poor dear
innocent bees,' said Miss Phoebe. 'And then it seems so ungrateful of
mankind, who are going to feast on the honey!' She sighed over the
thought, as if it was too much for her.

While Molly finished reading her note, he explained its contents to
Miss Browning.

'My brother and I are going with my father to an agricultural meeting
at Canonbury on Thursday, and my mother desired me to say to you how
very much obliged to you she should be if you would spare her Miss
Gibson for the day. She was very anxious to ask for the pleasure of
your company, too, but she really is so poorly that we persuaded her to
be content with Miss Gibson, as she wouldn't scruple leaving a young
lady to amuse herself, which she would be unwilling to do if you and
your sister were there.'

'I'm sure she's very kind; very. Nothing would have given us more
pleasure,' said Miss Browning, drawing herself up in gratified dignity.
'Oh, yes, we quite understand, Mr. Roger; and we fully recognize Mrs.
Hamley's kind intention. We will take the will for the deed, as the
common people express it. I believe that there was an intermarriage
between the Brownings and the Hamleys, a generation or two ago.'

'I daresay there was,' said Roger. 'My mother is very delicate, and
obliged to humour her health, which has made her keep aloof from
society.'

'Then I may go?' said Molly, sparkling with the idea of seeing her dear
Mrs. Hamley again, yet afraid of appearing too desirous of leaving her
kind old friends.

'To be sure, my dear. Write a pretty note, and tell Mrs. Hamley how
much obliged to her we are for thinking of us.'

'I'm afraid I can't wait for a note,' said Roger. 'I must take a
message instead, for I have to meet my father at one o'clock, and it's
close upon it now.'

When he was gone, Molly felt so light-hearted at the thoughts of
Thursday that she could hardly attend to what the Miss Brownings were
saying. One was talking about the pretty muslin gown which Molly had
sent to the wash only that morning, and contriving how it could be had
back again in time for Molly to wear; and the other, Miss Phoebe,
totally inattentive to her sister's speaking for a wonder, was piping
out a separate strain of her own, and singing Roger Hamley's praises.

'Such a fine-looking young man, and so courteous and affable. Like the
young men of our youth now, is he not, sister? And yet they all say Mr.
Osborne is the handsomest. What do you think, child?'

'I've never seen Mr. Osborne,' said Molly, blushing, and hating herself
for doing so. Why was it? She had never seen him as she said. It was
only that her fancy had dwelt on him so much.

He was gone; all the gentlemen were gone before the carriage, which
came to fetch Molly on Thursday, reached Hamley Hall. But Molly was
almost glad, she was so much afraid of being disappointed. Besides, she
had her dear Mrs. Hamley the more to herself; the quiet sit in the
morning-room, talking poetry and romance; the mid-day saunter into the
garden, brilliant with autumnal flowers and glittering dew-drops on the
gossamer webs that stretched from scarlet to blue, and thence to purple
and yellow petals. As they were sitting at lunch, a strange man's voice
and step were heard in the hall; the door was opened, and a young man
came in, who could be no other than Osborne. He was beautiful and
languid-looking, almost as frail in appearance as his mother, whom he
strongly resembled. This seeming delicacy made him appear older than he
was. He was dressed to perfection, and yet with easy carelessness. He
came up to his mother, and stood by her, holding her hand, while his
eyes sought Molly, not boldly or impertinently, but as if appraising
her critically.

'Yes! I'm back again. Bullocks, I find, are not in my line. I only
disappointed my father in not being able to appreciate their merits,
and, I'm afraid, I didn't care to learn. And the smell was insufferable
on such a hot day.'

'My dear boy, don't make apologies to me; keep them for your father.
I'm only too glad to have you back. Miss Gibson, this tall fellow is my
son Osborne, as I daresay you have guessed. Osborne--Miss Gibson. Now,
what will you have?'

He looked round the table as he sate down. 'Nothing here,' said he. 'Is
there not some cold game-pie? I'll ring for that.'

Molly was trying to reconcile the ideal with the real. The ideal was
agile, yet powerful, with Greek features and an eagle-eye, capable of
enduring long fasting, and indifferent as to what he ate. The real was
almost effeminate in movement, though not in figure; he had the Greek
features, but his blue eyes had a cold, weary expression in them. He
was dainty in eating, and had anything but a Homeric appetite. However,
Molly's hero was not to eat more than Ivanhoe, when he was Friar Tuck's
guest;' and, after all, with a little alteration, she began to think
Mr. Osborne Hamley might turn out a poetical, if not a chivalrous hero.
He was extremely attentive to his mother, which pleased Molly, and, in
return, Mrs. Hamley seemed charmed with him to such a degree that Molly
once or twice fancied that mother and son would have been happier in
her absence. Yet, again, it struck on the shrewd, if simple girl, that
Osborne was mentally squinting at her in the conversation which was
directed to his mother. There were little turns and '_fioriture_' of
speech which Molly could not help feeling were graceful antics of
language not common in the simple daily intercourse between mother and
son. But it was flattering rather than otherwise to perceive that a
very fine young man, who was a poet to boot, should think it worth
while to talk on the tight rope for her benefit. And before the
afternoon was ended, without there having been any direct conversation
between Osborne and Molly, she had reinstated him on his throne in her
imagination; indeed, she had almost felt herself disloyal to her dear
Mrs. Hamley when, in the first hour after her introduction, she had
questioned his claims on his mother's idolatry. His beauty came out
more and more, as he became animated in some discussion with her; and
all his attitudes, if a little studied, were graceful in the extreme.
Before Molly left, the squire and Roger returned from Canonbury.

'Osborne here!' said the squire, red and panting. 'Why the deuce
couldn't you tell us you were coming home? I looked about for you
everywhere, just as we were going into the ordinary. I wanted to
introduce you to Grantley, and Fox, and Lord Forrest-men from the other
side of the county, whom you ought to know; and Roger there missed
above half his dinner hunting about for you; and all the time you'd
stole away, and were quietly sitting here with the women. I wish you'd
let me know the next time you make off. I've lost half my pleasure in
looking at as fine a lot of cattle as I ever saw, with thinking you
might be having one of your old attacks of faintness.'

'I should have had one, I think, if I'd stayed longer in that
atmosphere. But I'm sorry if I've caused you anxiety.'

'Well! well!' said the squire, somewhat mollified. 'And Roger, too,--
there I've been sending him here and sending him there all the
afternoon.'

'I didn't mind it, sir. I was only sorry you were so uneasy. I thought
Osborne had gone home, for I knew it wasn't much in his way,' said
Roger.

Molly intercepted a glance between the two brothers--a look of true
confidence and love, which suddenly made her like them both under the
aspect of relationship--new to her observation.

Roger came up to her, and sate down by her.

'Well, and how are you getting on with Huber; don't you find him very
interesting?'

'I'm afraid,' said Molly, penitently, 'I haven't read much. The Miss
Brownings like me to talk; and, besides, there is so much to do at home
before papa comes back; and Miss Browning doesn't like me to go without
her. I know it sounds nothing, but it does take up a great deal of
time.'

'When is your father coming back?'

'Next Tuesday, I believe. He cannot stay long away.'

'I shall ride over and pay my respects to Mrs. Gibson,' said he. 'I
shall come as soon as I may. Your father has been a very kind friend to
me ever since I was a boy. And when I come, I shall expect my pupil to
have been very diligent,' he concluded, smiling his kind, pleasant
smile at idle Molly.

Then the carriage came round, and she had the long solitary drive back
to Miss Brownings'. It was dark out of doors when she got there; but
Miss Phoebe was standing on the stairs, with a lighted candle in her
hand, peering into the darkness to see Molly come in.

'Oh, Molly! I thought you'd never come back. Such a piece of news!
Sister has gone to bed; she's had a headache--with the excitement, I
think; but she says it's new bread. Come upstairs softly, my dear, and
I'll tell you what it is! Who do you think has been here,--drinking tea
with us, too, in the most condescending manner?'

'Lady Harriet?' said Molly, suddenly enlightened by the word
'condescending.'

'Yes. Why, how did you guess it? But, after all, her call, at any rate
in the first instance, was upon you. Oh dear, Molly! if you're not in a
hurry to go to bed, let me sit down quietly and tell you all about it;
for my heart jumps into my mouth still when I think of how I was
caught. She--that is, her ladyship--left the carriage at the "George,"
and took to her feet to go shopping--just as you or I may have done
many a time in our lives. And sister was taking her forty winks; and I
was sitting with my gown up above my knees and my feet on the fender,
pulling out my grandmother's lace which I'd been washing. The worst has
yet to be told. I'd taken off my cap, for I thought it was getting dusk
and no one would come, and there was I in my black silk skull-cap, when
Nancy put her head in, and whispered, "There's a lady downstairs--a
real grand one, by her talk;" and in there came my Lady Harriet, so
sweet and pretty in her ways, it was some time before I remembered I
had never a cap on. Sister never wakened; or never roused up, so to
say. She says she thought it was Nancy bringing in the tea when she
heard some one moving; for her ladyship, as soon as she saw the state
of the case, came and knelt down on the rug by me, and begged my pardon
so prettily for having followed Nancy upstairs without waiting for
permission; and was so taken by my old lace, and wanted to know how I
washed it, and where you were, and when you'd be back, and when the
happy couple would be back: till sister wakened--she's always a little
bit put out, you know, when she first wakens from her afternoon nap,--
and, without turning her head to see who it was, she said, quite
sharp,--

"Buzz, buzz, buzz! When will you learn that whispering is more
fidgeting than talking out loud? I've not been able to sleep at all for
the chatter you and Nancy have been keeping up all this time. You know
that was a little fancy of sister's, for she'd been snoring away as
naturally as could be."

So I went to her, and leant over her, and said, in a low voice,--

'Sister, it's her ladyship and me that has been conversing.'

'"Ladyship here, ladyship there! have you lost your wits, Phoebe, that
you talk such nonsense--and in your skull-cap, too!"'

By this time she was sitting up, and, looking round her, she saw Lady
Harriet, in her velvets and silks, sitting on our rug, smiling, her
bonnet off, and her pretty hair all bright with the blaze of the fire.
My word! Sister was up on her feet directly; and she dropped her
curtsey, and made her excuses for sleeping, as fast as might be, while
I went off to put on my best cap, for sister might well say I was out
of my wits to go on chatting to an earl's daughter in an old black silk
skull-cap. Black silk, too! when, if I'd only known she was coming, I
might have put on my new brown silk one, lying idle in my top drawer.
And when I came back, sister was ordering tea for her ladyship,--our
tea, I mean. So I took my turn at talk, and sister slipped out to put
on her Sunday silk. But I don't think we were quite so much at our ease
with her ladyship as when I sate pulling out my lace in my skull-cap.
And she was quite struck with our tea, and asked where we got it, for
she had never tasted any like it before; and I told her we gave only
3s. 4d. a pound for it, at Johnson's--(sister says I ought to have
told her the price of our company-tea, which is 5s. a pound, only
that was not what we were drinking; for, as ill-luck would have it,
we'd none of it in the house)--and she said she would send us some of
hers, all the way from Russia or Prussia, or some out-of-the-way place,
and we were to compare and see which we liked best; and if we liked
hers best, she could get it for us at 3s. a pound. And she left her
love for you; and, though she was going away, you were not to forget
her. Sister thought such a message would set you up too much, and told
me she would not be chargeable for the giving it you. "But," I said, "a
message is a message, and it's on Molly's own shoulders if she's set up
by it. Let us show her an example of humility, sister, though we have
been sitting cheek-by-jowl in such company." So sister humphed, and
said she'd a headache, and went to bed. And now you may tell me your
news, my dear.'

So Molly told her small events; which, interesting as they might have
been at other times to the gossip-loving and sympathetic Miss Phoebe,
were rather pale in the stronger light reflected from the visit of an
earl's daughter.




CHAPTER XV

THE NEW MAMMA


On Tuesday afternoon Molly returned home, to the home which was already
strange, and what Warwickshire people would call 'unked,' to her. New
paint, new paper, new colours; grim servants dressed in their best, and
objecting to every change--from their master's marriage to the new
oilcloth in the hall, 'which tripped 'em up, and threw 'em down, and
was cold to the feet, and smelt just abominable.' All these complaints
Molly had to listen to, and it was not a cheerful preparation for the
reception which she already felt to be so formidable.

The sound of their carriage-wheels was heard at last, and Molly went to
the front door to meet them. Her father got out first, and took her
hand and held it while he helped his bride to alight. Then he kissed
her fondly, and passed her on to his wife; but her veil was so securely
(and becomingly) fastened down, that it was some time before Mrs.
Gibson could get her lips clear to greet her new daughter. Then there
was luggage to be seen about; and both the travellers were occupied in
this, while Molly stood by, trembling with excitement, unable to help,
and only conscious of Betty's rather cross looks, as heavy box after
heavy box jammed up the passage.

'Molly, my dear, show--your mamma to her room!'

Mr. Gibson had hesitated, because the question of the name by which
Molly was to call her new relation had never occurred to him before.
The colour flashed into Molly's face. Was she to call her 'mamma'?--the
name long appropriated in her mind to some one else--to her own dead
mother. The rebellious heart rose against it, but she said nothing. She
led the way upstairs, Mrs. Gibson turning round, from time to time,
with some fresh direction as to which bag or trunk she needed most. She
hardly spoke to Molly till they were both in the newly-furnished
bedroom, where a small fire had been lighted by Molly's orders.

'Now, my love, we can embrace each other in peace. Oh dear, how tired I
am!'--(after the embrace had been accomplished.) 'My spirits are so
easily affected with fatigue; but your dear papa has been kindness
itself. Dear! what an old-fashioned bed! And what a--But it doesn't
signify. By-and-by we'll renovate the house--won't we, my dear? And
you'll be my little maid to-night, and help me to arrange a few things,
for I'm just worn out with the day's journey.'

'I've ordered a sort of tea-dinner to be ready for you,' said Molly.
'Shall I go and tell them to send it in?'

'I'm not sure if I can go down again to-night. It would be very
comfortable to have a little table brought in here, and sit in my
dressing-gown by this cheerful fire. But, to be sure, there's your dear
papa? I really don't think he would eat anything if I were not there.
One must not think about oneself, you know. Yes, I'll come down in a
quarter of an hour.'

But Mr. Gibson had found a note awaiting him, with an immediate summons
to an old patient, dangerously ill; and, snatching a mouthful of food
while his horse was being saddled, he had to resume at once his old
habits of attention to his profession above everything.

As soon as Mrs. Gibson found that he was not likely to miss her
presence--he had eaten a very tolerable lunch of bread and cold meat in
solitude, so her fears about his appetite in her absence were not well
founded--she desired to have her meal upstairs in her own room; and
poor Molly, not daring to tell the servants of this whim, had to carry
up first a table, which, however small, was too heavy for her; and
afterwards all the choice portions of the meal, which she had taken
great pains to arrange on the table, as she had seen such things done
at Hamley, intermixed with fruit and flowers that had that morning been
sent in from various great houses where Mr. Gibson was respected and
valued. How pretty Molly had thought her handiwork an hour or two
before! How dreary it seemed as, at last released from Mrs. Gibson's
conversation, she sate down in solitude to cold tea and the drumsticks
of the chicken! No one to look at her preparations, and admire her
left-handedness and taste! She had thought that her father would be
gratified by it, and then he had never seen it. She had meant her cares
as an offering of good-will to her stepmother, who even now was ringing
her bell to have the tray taken away, and Miss Gibson summoned to her
bedroom,

Molly hastily finished her meal, and went upstairs again.

'I feel so lonely, darling, in this strange house; do come and be with
me, and help me to unpack. I think your dear papa might have put off
his visit to Mr. Craven Smith for just this one evening.'

'Mr. Craven Smith couldn't put off his dying,' said Molly, bluntly.

'You droll girl!' said Mrs. Gibson, with a faint laugh. 'But if this
Mr. Smith is dying, as you say, what's the use of your father's going
off to him in such a hurry? Does he expect any legacy, or anything of
that kind?'

Molly bit her lips to prevent herself from saying something
disagreeable. She only answered,--

'I don't quite know that he is dying. The man said so; and papa can
sometimes do something to make the last struggle easier. At any rate,
it's always a comfort to the family to have him.'

'What dreary knowledge of death you have learned for a girl of your
age! Really, if I had heard all these details of your father's
profession, I doubt if I could have brought myself to have him!'

'He doesn't make the illness or the death; he does his best against
them. I call it a very fine thing to think of what he does or tries to
do. And you will think so, too, when you see how he is watched for, and
how people welcome him!'

'Well, don't let us talk any more of such gloomy things to-night! I
think I shall go to bed at once, I am so tired, if you will only sit by
me till I get sleepy, darling. If you will talk to me, the sound of
your voice will soon send me off.'

Molly got a book, and read her stepmother to sleep, preferring that to
the harder task of keeping up a continual murmur of speech.

Then she stole down and went into the dining-room, where the fire was
gone out; purposely neglected by the servants, to mark their
displeasure at their new mistress's having had her tea in her own room.
Molly managed to light it, however, before her father came home, and
collected and rearranged some comfortable food for him. Then she knelt
down again on the hearth-rug, gazing into the fire in a dreamy reverie,
which had enough of sadness about it to cause the tears to drop
unnoticed from her eyes. But she jumped up, and shook herself into
brightness at the sound of her father's step.

'How is Mr. Craven Smith?' said she.

'Dead. He just recognized me. He was one of my first patients on coming
to Hollingford.'

Mr. Gibson sate down in the arm-chair made ready for him, and warmed
his hands at the fire, seeming neither to need food nor talk, as he
went over a train of recollections. Then he roused himself from his
sadness, and looking round the room, he said briskly enough,--

'And where's the new mamma?'

'She was tired, and went to bed early. Oh, papa! must I call her
"mamma"?'

'I should like it,' replied he, with a slight contraction of the brows.

Molly was silent. She put a cup or tea near him; he stirred it, and
sipped it, and then he recurred to the subject.

'Why shouldn't you call her "mamma"? I'm sure she means to do the duty
of a mother to you. We all may make mistakes, and her ways may not be
quite all at once our ways; but at any rate let us start with a family
bond between us.'

What would Roger say was right?--that was the question that rose to
Molly's mind. She had always spoken of her father's new wife as Mrs
Gibson, and had once burst out at Miss Brownings' with a protestation
that she never would call her 'mamma.' She did not feel drawn to her
new relation by their intercourse that evening. She kept silence,
though she knew her father was expecting an answer. At last he gave up
his expectation, and turned to another subject; told about their
journey, questioned her as to the Hamleys, the Brownings, Lady Harriet,
and the afternoon they had passed together at the Manor House. But
there was a certain hardness and constraint in his manner, and in hers
a heaviness and absence of mind. All at once she said,--

'Papa, I will call her "mamma"!'

He took her hand, and grasped it tight; but for an instant or two he
did not speak. Then he said,--

'You won't be sorry for it, Molly, when you come to lie as poor Craven
Smith did to-night.'

For some time the murmurs and grumblings of the two elder servants were
confined to Molly's ears, then they spread to her father's, who, to
Molly's dismay, made summary work with them.

'You don't like Mrs. Gibson's ringing her bell so often, don't you?
You've been spoilt, I'm afraid; but if you don't conform to my wife's
desires, you have the remedy in your own hands, you know.'

What servant ever resisted the temptation to give warning after such a
speech as that? Betty told Molly she was going to leave, in as
indifferent a manner as she could possibly assume towards the girl,
whom she had tended and been about for the last sixteen years. Molly
had hitherto considered her former nurse as a fixture in the house; she
would almost as soon have thought of her father's proposing to sever
the relationship between them; and here was Betty coolly talking over
whether her next place should be in town or country. But a great deal
of this was assumed hardness. In a week or two Betty was in floods of
tears at the prospect of leaving her nursling, and would fain have
stayed and answered all the bells in the house once every quarter of an
hour. Even Mr. Gibson's masculine heart was touched by the sorrow of
the old servant, which made itself obvious to him every time he came
across her by her broken voice and her swollen eyes.

One day he said to Molly, 'I wish you'd ask your mamma if Betty might
not stay, if she made a proper apology, and all that sort of thing.'

'I don't much think it will be of any use,' said Molly, in a mournful
voice. 'I know she is writing, or has written, about some under-
housemaid at the Towers.'

'Well!--all I want is peace and a decent quantity of cheerfulness when
I come home. I see enough of tears in other people's houses. After all,
Betty has been with us sixteen years--a sort of service of the antique
world. But the woman may be happier elsewhere. Do as you like about
asking mamma; only if she agrees, I shall be quite willing.'

So Molly tried her hand at making a request to that effect to Mrs
Gibson. Her instinct told her she should be unsuccessful; but surely
favour was never refused in so soft a tone.

'My dear girl, I should never have thought of sending an old servant
away,--one who has had the charge of you from your birth, or nearly so.
I could not have had the heart to do it. She might have stayed for ever
for me, if she had only attended to all my wishes; and I am not
unreasonable, am I? But, you see, she complained; and when your dear
papa spoke to her, she gave warning; and it is quite against my
principles ever to take an apology from a servant who has given
warning.'

'She is so sorry,' pleaded Molly; 'she says she will do anything you
wish, and attend to all your orders, if she may only stay.'

'But, sweet one, you seem to forget that I cannot go against my
principles, however much I may be sorry for Betty. She should not have
given way to ill-temper. As I said before, although I never liked her,
and considered her a most inefficient servant, thoroughly spoilt by
having had no mistress for so long, I should have borne with her--at
least, I think I should--as long as I could. Now I have all but engaged
Maria, who was under-housemaid at the Towers, so don't let me hear any
more of Betty's sorrow, or anybody else's sorrow, for I'm sure, what
with your dear papa's sad stories and other things, I'm getting quite
low.'

Molly was silent for a moment or two.

'Have you quite engaged Maria?' asked she.

'No--I said "all but engaged." Sometimes one would think you did not
hear things, dear Molly!' replied Mrs. Gibson, petulantly. 'Maria is
living in a place where they don't give her as much wages as she
deserves. Perhaps they can't afford it, poor things! I'm always sorry
for poverty, and would never speak hardly of those who are not rich;
but I have offered her two pounds more than she gets at present, so I
think she'll leave. At any rate, if they increase her wages, I shall
increase my offer in proportion; so I think I'm sure to get her. Such a
genteel girl!--always brings in a letter on a salver!'

'Poor Betty!' said Molly, softly.

'Poor old soul! I hope she'll profit by the lesson, I'm sure,' sighed
out Mrs. Gibson; 'but it's a pity we hadn't Maria before the county
families began to call.'

Mrs. Gibson had been highly gratified by the circumstances of so many
calls 'from county families.' Her husband was much respected; and many
ladies from various halls, courts, and houses, who had profited by his
services towards themselves and their families, thought it right to pay
his new wife the attention of a call when they drove into Hollingford
to shop. The state of expectation into which these calls threw Mrs.
Gibson rather diminished Mr. Gibson's domestic comfort. It was awkward
to be carrying hot, savoury-smelling dishes from the kitchen to the
dining-room at the very time when high-born ladies, with noses of
aristocratic refinement, might be calling. Still more awkward was the
accident which happened in consequence of clumsy Betty's haste to open
the front door to a lofty footman's ran-tan, which caused her to set
down the basket containing the dirty plates right in his mistress's
way, as she stepped gingerly through the comparative darkness of the
hall; and then the young men, leaving the dining-room quietly enough,
but bursting with long-repressed giggle, or no longer restraining their
tendency to practical joking, no matter who might be in the passage
when they made their exit. The remedy proposed by Mrs. Gibson for all
these distressing grievances was a late dinner. The luncheon for the
young men, as she observed to her husband, might be sent into the
surgery. A few elegant cold trifles for herself and Molly would not
scent the house, and she would always take care to have some little
dainty ready for him. He acceded, but unwillingly, for it was an
innovation on the habits of a lifetime, and he felt as if he should
never be able to arrange his rounds aright with this newfangled notion
of a six o'clock dinner.

'Don't get any dainties for me, my dear; bread and cheese is the chief
of my diet, like it was that of the old woman's.'

'I know nothing of your old woman,' replied his wife; 'but really I
cannot allow cheese to come beyond the kitchen.'

'Then I'll eat it there,' said he. 'It's close to the stable-yard, and
if I come in in a hurry I can get it in a moment.'

'Really, Mr. Gibson, it is astonishing to compare your appearance and
manners with your tastes. You look such a gentleman, as dear Lady
Cumnor used to say.'

Then the cook left; also an old servant, though not so old a one as
Betty. The cook did not like the trouble of late dinners; and, being a
Methodist, she objected on religious grounds to trying any of Mrs
Gibson's new receipts for French dishes. It was not scriptural, she
said. There was a deal of mention of food in the Bible; but it was of
sheep ready dressed, which meant mutton, and of wine, and of bread, and
milk, and figs and raisins, of fatted calves, a good well-browned
fillet of veal, and such like; but it had always gone against her
conscience to cook swine-flesh and make raised pork-pies, and now if
she was to be set to cook heathen dishes after the fashion of the
Papists, she'd sooner give it all up together. So the cook followed in
Betty's track, and Mr. Gibson had to satisfy his healthy English
appetite on badly made omelettes, rissoles, _vol-au-vents, croquets_,
and timbales; never being exactly sure what he was eating.

He had made up his mind before his marriage to yield in trifles, and be
firm in greater things. But the differences of opinion about trifles
arose every day, and were perhaps more annoying than if they had
related to things of more consequence. Molly knew her father's looks as
well as she knew her alphabet; his wife did not; and being an
unperceptive person, except when her own interests were dependent upon
another person's humour, never found out how he was worried by all the
small daily concessions which he made to her will or her whims. He
never allowed himself to put any regret into shape, even in his own
mind; he repeatedly reminded himself of his wife's good qualities, and
comforted himself by thinking they should work together better as time
rolled on; but he was very angry at a bachelor great-uncle of Mr.
Coxe's, who, after taking no notice of his red-headed nephew for years,
suddenly sent for him, after the old man had partially recovered from a
serious attack of illness, and appointed him his heir, on condition
that his great-nephew remained with him during the remainder of his
life. This had happened almost directly after Mr. and Mrs. Gibson's
return from their wedding journey, and once or twice since that time
Mr. Gibson had found himself wondering why the deuce old Benson could
not have made up his mind sooner, and so have rid his house of the
unwelcome presence of the young lover. To do Mr. Coxe justice, in the
very last conversation he had as a pupil with Mr. Gibson he had said,
with hesitating awkwardness, that perhaps the new circumstances in
which he should be placed might make some difference with regard to Mr
Gibson's opinion on--

'Not at all,' said Mr. Gibson, quickly. 'You are both of you too young
to know your own minds; and if my daughter was silly enough to be in
love, she should never have to calculate her happiness on the chances
of an old man's death. I dare say he'll disinherit you after all. He
may do, and then you'd be worse off than ever. No! go away, and forget
all this nonsense; and when you've done, come back and see us!'

So Mr. Coxe went away, with an oath of unalterable faithfulness in his
heart; and Mr. Gibson had unwillingly to fulfil an old promise made to
a gentleman farmer in the neighbourhood a year or two before, and to
take the second son of Mr. Browne in young Coxe's place. He was to be
the last of the race of pupils, and as he was rather more than a year
younger than Molly, Mr. Gibson trusted that there would be no
repetition of the Coxe romance.




CHAPTER XVI

THE BRIDE AT HOME


Among the 'county people' (as Mrs. Gibson termed them) who called upon
her as a bride, were the two young Mr. Hamleys. The Squire, their
father, had done his congratulations, as far as he ever intended to do
them, to Mr. Gibson himself when he came to the hall; but Mrs. Hamley,
unable to go and pay visits herself, anxious to show attention to her
kind doctor's new wife, and with perhaps a little sympathetic curiosity
as to how Molly and her stepmother got on together, made her sons ride
over to Hollingford with her cards and apologies. They came into the
newly-furnished drawing-room, looking bright and fresh from their ride:
Osborne first, as usual, perfectly dressed for the occasion, and with
the sort of fine manner which sate so well upon him; Roger, looking
like a strong-built, cheerful, intelligent country farmer, followed in
his brother's train. Mrs. Gibson was dressed for receiving callers, and
made the effect she always intended to produce, of a very pretty woman,
no longer in first youth, but with such soft manners and such a
caressing voice, that people forgot to wonder what her real age might
be. Molly was better dressed than formerly; her stepmother saw after
that. She disliked anything old or shabby, or out of taste about her;
it hurt her eye; and she had already fidgeted Molly into a new amount
of care about the manner in which she put on her clothes, arranged her
hair, and was gloved and shod. Mrs. Gibson had tried to put her through
a course of rosemary washes and creams in order to improve her tanned
complexion; but about that Molly was either forgetful or rebellious,
and Mrs. Gibson could not well come up to the girl's bedroom every
night and see that she daubed her face and neck over with the cosmetics
so carefully provided for her. Still, her appearance was extremely
improved, even to Osborne's critical eye. Roger sought rather to
discover in her looks and expression whether she was happy or not; his
mother had especially charged him to note all these signs.

Osborne and Mrs. Gibson made themselves agreeable to each other
according to the approved fashion when a young man calls on a middle-
aged bride. They talked of the 'Shakespeare and musical glasses' of the
day, each viewing with the other in their knowledge of London topics.
Molly heard fragments of their conversation in the pauses of silence
between Roger and herself. Her hero was coming out in quite a new
character; no longer literary or poetical, or romantic, or critical, he
was now full of the last new play, the singers at the opera. He had the
advantage over Mrs. Gibson, who, in fact, only spoke of these things
from hearsay, from listening to the talk at the Towers, while Osborne
had run up from Cambridge two or three times to hear this, or to see
that, wonder of the season. But she had the advantage over him in
greater boldness of invention to eke out her facts; and besides she had
more skill in the choice and arrangement of her words, so as to make it
appear as if the opinions that were in reality quotations, were formed
by herself from actual experience or personal observation; such as, in
speaking of the mannerisms of a famous Italian singer, she would ask,--

'Did you observe her constant trick of heaving her shoulders and
clasping her hands together before she took a high note?'--which was so
said as to imply that Mrs. Gibson herself had noticed this trick.
Molly, who had a pretty good idea by this time of how her stepmother
had passed the last year of her life, listened with no small
bewilderment to this conversation; but at length decided that she must
misunderstand what they were saying, as she could not gather up the
missing links for the necessity of replying to Roger's questions and
remarks. Osborne was not the same Osborne he was when with his mother
at the hall. Roger saw her glancing at his brother.

'You think my brother looking ill?' said he, lowering his voice.

'No--not exactly.'

'He is not well. Both my father and I are anxious about him. That run
on the Continent did him harm, instead of good; and his disappointment
at his examination has told upon him, I'm afraid.'

'I was not thinking he looked ill; only changed somehow.'

'He says he must go back to Cambridge soon. Possibly it may do him
good; and I shall be off next week. This is a farewell visit to you, as
well as one of congratulation to Mrs. Gibson.'

'Your mother will feel your both going away, won't she? But of course
young men will always have to live away from home.'

'Yes,' he replied. 'Still she feels it a good deal; and I am not
satisfied about her health either. You will go over and see her
sometimes, will you? she is very fond of you.'

'If I may,' said Molly, unconsciously glancing at her stepmother. She
had an uncomfortable instinct that, in spite of Mrs. Gibson's own
perpetual flow of words, she could, and did, hear everything that fell
from Molly's lips.

'Do you want any more books?' said he. 'If you do, make a list out, and
send it to my mother before I leave, next Tuesday. After I am gone,
there will be no one to go into the library and pick them out.'

After they were gone, Mrs. Gibson began her usual comments on the
departed visitors.

'I do like that Osborne Hamley! What a nice fellow he is! Somehow, I
always do like eldest sons. He will have the estate, won't he? I shall
ask your dear papa to encourage him to come about the house. He will be
a very good, very pleasant acquaintance for you and Cynthia. The other
is but a loutish young fellow, to my mind; there is no aristocratic
bearing about him. I suppose he takes after his mother, who is but a
parvenue, I've heard them say at the Towers.'

Molly was spiteful enough to have great pleasure in saying,--

'I think I've heard her father was a Russia merchant, and imported
tallow and hemp. Mr. Osborne Hamley is extremely like her.'

'Indeed! But there's no calculating these things. Anyhow, he is the
perfect gentleman in appearance and manner. The estate is entailed, is
it not?'

'I know nothing about it,' said Molly.

A short silence ensued. Then Mrs. Gibson said,--

'Do you know, I almost think I must get dear papa to give a little
dinner-party, and ask Mr. Osborne Hamley? I should like to have him
feel at home in this house. It would be something cheerful for him
after the dulness and solitude of Hamley Hall. For the old people don't
visit much, I believe?'

'He's going back to Cambridge next week,' said Molly.

'Is he? Well, then, we'll put off our little dinner till Cynthia comes
home. I should like to have some young society for her, poor darling,
when she returns.'

'When is she coming?' said Molly, who had always a longing curiosity
for this same Cynthia's return.

'Oh! I'm not sure; perhaps at the new year--perhaps not till Easter. I
must get this drawing-room all new furnished first; and then I mean to
fit up her room and yours just alike. They are just the same size, only
on opposite sides of the passage.'

'Are you going to new-furnish that room?' said Molly, in astonishment
at the never-ending changes.

'Yes; and yours, too, darling; so don't be jealous.'

'Oh, please, mamma, not mine,' said Molly, taking in the idea for the
first time.

'Yes, dear! You shall have yours done as well. A little French bed,'
and a new paper, and a pretty carpet, and a dressed-up _toilette_-table
and glass, will make it look quite a different place.'

'But I don't want it to look different. I like it as it is. Pray don't
do anything to it.'

'What nonsense, child! I never heard anything more ridiculous! Most
girls would be glad to get rid of furniture only fit for the lumber-
room.'

'It was my own mamma's before she was married,' said Molly, in a very
low voice; bringing out this last plea unwillingly, but with a
certainty that it would not be resisted.

Mrs. Gibson paused for a moment before she replied,--

'It's very much to your credit that you should have such feelings, I'm
sure. But don't you think sentiment may be carried too far? Why, we
should have no new furniture at all, and should have to put up with
worm-eaten horrors. Besides, my dear, Hollingford will seem very dull
to Cynthia, after pretty, gay France, and I want to make the first
impressions attractive. I've a notion I can settle her down near here;
and I want her to come in a good temper; for, between ourselves, my
dear, she is a little, leetle wilful. You need not mention this to your
papa.'

'But can't you do Cynthia's room, and not mine? Please let mine alone.'

'No, indeed! I couldn't agree to that. Only think what would be said of
me by everybody; petting my own child, and neglecting my husband's! I
couldn't bear it.'

'No one need know.'

'In such a tittle-tattle place as Hollingford! Really, Molly, you are
either very stupid or very obstinate, or else you don't care what hard
things may be said about me: and all for a selfish fancy of your own!
No! I owe myself the justice of acting in this matter as I please.
Every one shall know I'm not a common stepmother. Every penny I spend
on Cynthia I shall spend on you too; so it's no use talking any more
about it.'

So Molly's little white dimity bed, her old-fashioned chest of drawers,
and her other cherished relics of her mother's maiden-days, were
consigned to the lumber-room; and after a while, when Cynthia and her
great French boxes had come home, the old furniture that had filled up
the space required for the fresh importation of trunks, disappeared
into the lumber-room.

All this time the family at the Towers had been absent; Lady Cumnor had
been ordered to Bath for the early part of the winter, and her family
were with her there. On dull rainy days, Mrs. Gibson used to bethink
her of missing 'the Cumnors,' for so she had taken to calling them
since her position had become more independent of theirs. It marked a
distinction between her intimacy in the family, and the reverential
manner in which the townspeople were accustomed to speak of 'the earl
and the countess.' both Lady Cumnor and Lady Harriet wrote to their
dear Clare from time to time. The former had generally some commissions
that she wished to have executed at the Towers, or in the town; and no
one could do them so well as Clare, who was acquainted with all the
tastes and ways of the countess. These commissions were the cause of
various bills for flys and cars from the 'George' Inn. Mr. Gibson
pointed out this consequence to his wife; but she, in return, bade him
remark that a present of game was pretty sure to follow upon the
satisfactory execution of Lady Cumnor's wishes. Somehow, Mr. Gibson did
not quite like this consequence either; but he was silent about it, at
any rate. Lady Harriet's letters were short and amusing. She had that
sort of regard for her old governess which prompted her to write from
time to time, and to feel glad when the half-voluntary task was
accomplished. So there was no real outpouring of confidence, but enough
news of the family and gossip of the place she was in, as she thought
would make Clare feel that she was not forgotten by her former pupils,
intermixed with moderate but sincere expressions of regard. How those
letters were quoted and referred to by Mrs. Gibson in her conversations
with the Hollingford ladies! She had found out their effect at
Ashcombe; and it was not less at Hollingford. But she was rather
perplexed at kindly messages to Molly, and at inquiries as to how the
Miss Brownings liked the tea she had sent; and Molly had first to
explain, and then to narrate at full length, all the occurrences of the
afternoon at Ashcombe Manor House, and Lady Harriet's call upon her at
Miss Brownings'.

'What nonsense!' said Mrs. Gibson, with some annoyance. 'Lady Harriet
only went to see you out of a desire of amusement. She would only make
fun of the Miss Brownings, and then they will be quoting her and
talking about her, just as if she was their intimate friend.'

'I don't think she did make fun of them. She really sounded as if she
had been very kind.'

'And you suppose you know her ways better than I do, who have known her
these fifteen years? I tell you she turns every one into ridicule who
does not belong to her set. Why, she used always to speak of the Miss
Brownings as "Pecksy and Flapsy."'

'She promised me she would not,' said Molly driven to bay.

'Promised you!--Lady Harriet? What do you mean?'

'Only--she spoke of them as Pecksy and Flapsy--and when she talked of
coming to call on me at their house, I asked her not to come if she was
going to--to make fun of them.'

'Upon my word! with all my long acquaintance with Lady Harriet I should
never have ventured on such impertinence.'

'I didn't mean it as impertinence,' said Molly, sturdily. 'And I don't
think Lady Harriet took it as such.'

'You can't know anything about it. She can put on any kind of manner.'

Just then Squire Hamley came in. It was his first call; and Mrs Gibson
gave him a graceful welcome, and was quite ready to accept his apology
for its tardiness, and to assure him that she quite understood the
pressure of business on every landowner who farmed his own estate. But
no such apology was made. He shook her hand heartily, as a mark of
congratulation on her good fortune in having secured such a prize as
his friend Gibson, but said nothing about his long neglect of duty.
Molly, who by this time knew the few strong expressions of his
countenance well, was sure that something was the matter, and that he
was very much disturbed. He hardly attended to Mrs. Gibson's fluent
opening of conversation, for she had already determined to make a
favourable impression on the father of the handsome young man who was
heir to an estate, besides his own personal agreeableness; but he
turned to Molly, and, addressing her, said--almost in a low voice, as
if he was making a confidence to her that he did not intend Mrs. Gibson
to hear,--

'Molly, we are all wrong at home! Osborne has lost the fellowship at
Trinity he went back to try for. Then he has gone and failed miserably
in his degree, after all that he said, and that his mother said; and I,
like a fool, went and boasted about my clever son. I can't understand
it. I never expected anything extraordinary from Roger; but Osborne--!
And then it has thrown madam into one of her bad fits of illness; and
she seems to have a fancy for you, child! Your father came to see her
this morning. Poor thing, she's very poorly, I'm afraid; and she told
him how she should like to have you about her, and he said I might
fetch you. You'll come, won't you, my dear? She's not a poor woman,
such as many people think it's the only charity to be kind to, but
she's just as forlorn of woman's care as if she was poor--worse, I dare
say.'

'I'll be ready in ten minutes,' said Molly, much touched by the
squire's words and manner, never thinking of asking her stepmother's
consent, now that she had heard that her father had given his. As she
rose to leave the room, Mrs. Gibson, who had only half heard what the
squire had said, and was a little affronted at the exclusiveness of his
confidence, said,--'My dear, where are you going?'

'Mrs. Hamley wants me, and papa says I may go,' said Molly; and almost
at the same time the squire replied,--

'My wife is ill, and as she's very fond of your daughter, she begged
Mr. Gibson to allow her to come to the Hall for a little while, and he
kindly said she might, and I'm come to fetch her.'

'Stop a minute, darling,' said Mrs. Gibson to Molly--a slight cloud
over her countenance, in spite of her caressing word. 'I am sure dear
papa quite forgot that you were to go out with me to-night, to visit
people,' continued she, addressing herself to the squire, 'with whom I
am quite unacquainted--and it is very uncertain if Mr Gibson can return
in time to go with me--so, you see, I cannot allow Molly to go with
you.'

'I shouldn't have thought it would have signified. Brides are always
brides, I suppose; and it's their part to be timid; but I shouldn't
have thought it--in this case. And my wife sets her heart on things, as
sick people do. Well, Molly' (in a louder tone, for these foregoing
sentences were spoken _sotto voce_), 'we must put it off till to-
morrow: and it's our loss, not yours,' he continued, as he saw the
reluctance with which she slowly returned to her place. 'You'll be as
gay as can be to-night, I dare say--'

'No, I shall not,' broke in Molly. 'I never wanted to go, and now I
shall want it less than ever.'

'Hush, my dear,' said Mrs. Gibson; and, addressing the squire, she
added, 'The visiting here is not all one could wish for so young a
girl--no young people, no dances, nothing of gaiety; but it is wrong in
you, Molly, to speak against such kind friends of your father's as I
understand these Cockerells are. Don't give so bad an impression of
yourself to the kind squire.'

'Let her alone! let her alone!' quoth he. 'I see what she means. She'd
rather come and be in my wife's sick-room than go out for this visit
to-night. Is there no way of getting her off?'

'None whatever,' said Mrs. Gibson. 'An engagement is an engagement with
me; and I consider that she is not only engaged to Mrs Cockerell, but
to me--bound to accompany me, in my husband's absence.'

The squire was put out; and when he was put out he had a trick of
placing his hands on his knees and whistling softly to himself. Molly
knew this phase of his displeasure, and only hoped he would confine
himself to this wordless expression of annoyance. It was pretty hard
work for her to keep the tears out of her eyes; and she endeavoured to
think of something else, rather than dwell on regrets and annoyances.
She heard Mrs. Gibson talking on in a sweet monotone, and wished to
attend to what she was saying, but the squire's visible annoyance
struck sharper on her mind. At length, after a pause of silence, he
started up, and said,--

'Well! it's no use. Poor madam; she won't like it. She'll be
disappointed! But it's but for one evening!--but for one evening! She
may come to-morrow, mayn't she? Or will the dissipation of such an
evening as she describes, be too much for her?'

There was a touch of savage irony in his manner which frightened Mrs
Gibson into good behaviour.

'She shall be ready at any time you name. I am so sorry: my foolish
shyness is in fault, I believe; but still you must acknowledge that an
engagement is an engagement.'

'Did I ever say an engagement was an elephant, madam? However, there's
no use saying any more about it, or I shall forget my manners. I'm an
old tyrant, and she--lying there in bed, poor girl--has always given me
my own way. So you'll excuse me, Mrs Gibson, won't you; and let Molly
come along with me at ten to-morrow morning?'

'Certainly,' said Mrs. Gibson, smiling. But when his back was turned,
she said to Molly,--

'Now, my dear, I must never have you exposing me to the ill-manners of
such a man again! I don't call him a squire; I call him a boor, or a
yeoman at best. You must not go on accepting or rejecting invitations
as if you were an independent young lady, Molly. Pay me the respect of
a reference to my wishes another time, if you please, my dear!'

'Papa had said I might go,' said Molly, choking a little.

'As I am now your mamma your references must be to me, for the future.
But as you are to go you may as well look well dressed. I will lend you
my new shawl for this visit, if you like it, and my set of green
ribbons. I am always indulgent when proper respect is paid to me. And
in such a house as Hamley Hall, no one can tell who may be coming and
going, even if there is sickness in the family.'

'Thank you. But I don't want the shawl and the ribbons, please: there
will be nobody there except the family. There never is, I think; and
now that she is so ill'--Molly was on the point of crying at the
thought of her friend lying ill and lonely, and looking for her
arrival. Moreover, she was sadly afraid lest the squire had gone off
with the idea that she did not want to come--that she preferred that
stupid, stupid party at the Cockerells'. Mrs. Gibson, too, was sorry;
she had an uncomfortable consciousness of having given way to temper
before a stranger, and a stranger, too, whose good opinion she had
meant to cultivate: and she was also annoyed at Molly's tearful face.

'What can I do for you, to bring you back into good temper?' she said.
'First, you insist upon your knowing Lady Harriet better than I do--I,
who have known her for eighteen or nineteen years at least. Then you
jump at invitations without ever consulting me, or thinking of how
awkward it would be for me to go stumping into a drawing-room all by
myself; following my new name, too, which always makes me feel
uncomfortable, it is such a sad come-down after Kirkpatrick! And then,
when I offer you some of the prettiest things I have got, you say it
does not signify how you are dressed. What can I do to please you,
Molly? I, who delight in nothing more than peace in a family, to see
you sitting there with despair upon your face?'

Molly could stand it no longer; she went upstairs to her own room--her
own smart new room, which hardly yet seemed a familiar place; and began
to cry so heartily and for so long a time, that she stopped at length
for very weariness. She thought of Mrs. Hamley wearying for her; of the
old Hall whose very quietness might become oppressive to an ailing
person; of the trust the squire had had in her that she would come off
directly with him. And all this oppressed her much more than the
querulousness of her stepmother's words.




CHAPTER XVII

TROUBLE AT HAMLEY HALL


If Molly thought that peace dwelt perpetually at Hamley Hall she was
sorely mistaken. Something was out of tune in the whole establishment;
and, for a very unusual thing, the common irritation seemed to have
produced a common bond. All the servants were old in their places, and
were told by some one of the family, or gathered, from the unheeded
conversation carried on before them, everything that affected master or
mistress or either of the young gentlemen. Any one of them could have
told Molly that the grievance which lay at the root of everything, was
the amount of the bills run up by Osborne at Cambridge, and which, now
that all chance of his obtaining a fellowship was over, came pouring
down upon the squire. But Molly, confident of being told by Mrs. Hamley
herself anything which she wished her to hear, encouraged no
confidences from any one else.

She was struck with the change in 'madam's' looks as soon as she caught
sight of her in the darkened room, lying on the sofa in her dressing-
room, all dressed in white, which almost rivalled the white wanness of
her face. The squire ushered Molly in with,--

'Here she is at last!' and Molly had scarcely imagined that he had so
much variety in the tones of his voice--the beginning of the sentence
was spoken in a loud congratulatory manner, while the last words were
scarcely audible. He had seen the death-like pallor on his wife's face;
not a new sight, and one which had been presented to him gradually
enough, but which was now always giving him a fresh shock. It was a
lovely tranquil winter's day; every branch and every twig of the trees
and shrubs were glittering with drops of the sun-melted hoarfrost; a
robin was perched on a holly-bush, piping cheerily; but the blinds were
down, and out of Mrs. Hamley's windows nothing of all this was to be
seen. There was even a large screen placed between her and the wood-
fire, to keep off that cheerful blaze. Mrs. Hamley stretched out one
hand to Molly, and held hers firm; with the other she shaded her eyes.

'She is not so well this morning,' said the squire, shaking his head.
'But never fear, my dear one; here's the doctor's daughter, nearly as
good as the doctor himself. Have you had your medicine? Your beef-tea?'
he continued, going about on heavy tiptoe and peeping into every empty
cup and glass. Then he returned to the sofa; looked at her for a minute
or two, and then softly kissed her, and told Molly he would leave her
in charge.

As if Mrs. Hamley was afraid of Molly's remarks or questions, she began
in her turn a hasty system of interrogatories.

'Now, dear child, tell me all; it's no breach of confidence, for I
shan't mention it again, and I shan't be here long. How does it all go
on--the new mother, the good resolutions? let me help you if I can. I
think with a girl I could have been of use--a mother does not know
boys. But tell me anything you like and will; don't be afraid of
details.'

Even with Molly's small experience of illness she saw how much of
restless fever there was in this speech; and instinct, or some such
gift, prompted her to tell a long story of many things--the wedding-
day, her visit to Miss Brownings', the new furniture, Lady Harriet,
&c., all in an easy flow of talk which was very soothing to Mrs.
Hamley, inasmuch as it gave her something to think about beyond her own
immediate sorrows. But Molly did not speak of her own grievances, nor
of the new domestic relationship. Mrs. Hamley noticed this.

'And you and Mrs. Gibson get on happily together?'

'Not always,' said Molly. 'You know we didn't know much of each other
before we were put to live together.'

'I didn't like what the squire told me last night. He was very angry.'

That sore had not yet healed over; but Molly resolutely kept silence,
beating her brains to think of some other subject of conversation.

'Ah! I see, Molly,' said Mrs. Hamley; 'you won't tell me your sorrows,
and yet, perhaps, I could have done you some good.'

'I don't like,' said Molly, in a low voice. 'I think papa wouldn't like
it. And, besides, you have helped me so much--you and Mr. Roger Hamley.
I often, often think of the things he said; they come in so usefully,
and are such a strength to me.'

'Ah, Roger! yes. He is to be trusted. Oh, Molly! I've a great deal to
say to you myself, only not now. I must have my medicine and try to go
to sleep. Good girl! You are stronger than I am, and can do without
sympathy.'

Molly was taken to another room; the maid who conducted her to it told
her that Mrs. Hamley had not wished her to have her nights disturbed,
as they might very probably have been if she had been in her former
sleeping-room. In the afternoon Mrs. Hamley sent for her, and with the
want of reticence common to invalids, especially to those suffering
from long and depressing maladies, she told Molly of the family
distress and disappointment.

She made Molly sit down near her on a little stool, and, holding her
hand, and looking into her eyes to catch her spoken sympathy from their
expression quicker than she could from her words, she said,--

'Osborne has so disappointed us! I cannot understand it yet. And the
squire was so terribly angry! I cannot think how all the money was
spent--advances through money-lenders, besides bills. The squire does
not show me how angry he is now, because he's afraid of another attack;
but I know how angry he is. You see he has been spending ever so much
money in reclaiming that land at Upton Common, and is very hard pressed
himself. But it would have doubled the value of the estate, and so we
never thought anything of economics which would benefit Osborne in the
long run. And now the squire says he must mortgage some of the land;
and you can't think how it cuts him to the heart. He sold a great deal
of timber to send the two boys to college. Osborne--oh! what a dear,
innocent boy he was: he was the heir, you know; and he was so clever,
every one said he was sure of honours and a fellowship, and I don't
know what all; and he did get a scholarship, and then all went wrong. I
don't know how. That is the worst. Perhaps the squire wrote too
angrily, and that stopped up confidence. But he might have told me. He
would have done, I think, Molly, if he had been here, face to face with
me. But the squire, in his anger, told him not to show his face at home
till he had paid off the debts he had incurred out of his allowance.
Out of two hundred and fifty a year to pay off more than nine hundred,
one way or another! And not to come home till then! Perhaps Roger will
have debts too! He had but two hundred; but, then, he was not the
eldest son. The squire has given orders that the men are to be turned
off the draining-works; and I lie awake thinking of their poor families
this wintry weather. But what shall we do? I've never been strong, and,
perhaps, I've been extravagant in my habits; and there were family
traditions as to expenditure, and the reclaiming of this land. Oh!
Molly, Osborne was such a sweet little baby, and such a loving boy: so
clever, too! You know I read you some of his poetry: now, could a
person who wrote like that do anything very wrong? And yet I'm afraid
he has.'

'Don't you know, at all, how the money has gone?' asked Molly.

'No! not at all. That's the sting. There are tailors' bills, and bills
for book-binding and wine and pictures--that come to four or five
hundred; and though this expenditure is extraordinary--inexplicable to
such simple folk as we are--yet it may be only the luxury of the
present day. But the money for which he will give no account,--of
which, indeed, we only heard through the squire's London agents, who
found out that certain disreputable attorneys were making inquiries as
to the entail of the estate,--oh! Molly, worse than all--I don't know
how to bring myself to tell you--as to the age and health of the
squire, his dear father'--(she began to sob almost hysterically; yet
she would go on talking, in spite of Molly's efforts to stop her)--'who
held him in his arms, and blessed him, even before I had kissed him;
and thought always so much of him as his heir and first-born darling.
How he has loved him! How I have loved him! I sometimes have thought of
late that we've almost done that good Roger injustice.'

'No! I'm sure you've not: only look at the way he loves you. Why, you
are his first thought: he may not speak about it, but any one may see
it. And dear, dear Mrs. Hamley,' said Molly, determined to say out all
that was in her mind now that she had once got the word, 'don't you
think that it would be better not to misjudge Mr. Osborne Hamley? We
don't know what he has done with the money: he is so good (is he not?)
that he may have wanted it to relieve some poor person--some tradesman,
for instance, pressed by creditors--some--'

'You forget, dear,' said Mrs. Hamley, smiling a little at the girl's
impetuous romance, but sighing the next instant, 'that all the other
bills come from tradesmen, who complain piteously of being kept out of
their money.'

Molly was nonplussed for the moment; but then she said,--

'I daresay they imposed upon him. I'm sure I've heard stories of young
men being made regular victims of by the shopkeepers in great towns.'

'You're a great darling, child,' said Mrs. Hamley, comforted by Molly's
strong partisanship, unreasonable and ignorant though it was.

'And, besides,' continued Molly, 'some one must be acting wrongly in
Osborne's--Mr. Osborne Hamley's, I mean--I can't help saying Osborne
sometimes, but, indeed, I always think of him as Mr. Osborne--'

'Never mind, Molly, what you call him; only go on talking. It seems to
do me good to have the hopeful side taken. The squire has been so hurt
and displeased: strange-looking men coming into the neighbourhood, too,
questioning the tenants, and grumbling about the last fall of timber,
as if they were calculating on the squire's death.'

'That's just what I was going to speak about. Doesn't it show that they
are bad men? and would bad men scruple to impose upon him, and to tell
lies in his name, and to ruin him?'

'Don't you see, you only make him out weak, instead of wicked?'

'Yes; perhaps I do. But I don't think he is weak. You know yourself,
dear Mrs. Hamley, how very clever he really is. Besides, I would rather
he was weak than wicked. Weak people may find themselves all at once
strong in heaven, when they see things quite clearly; but I don't think
the wicked will turn themselves into virtuous people all at once.'

'I think I've been very weak, Molly,' said Mrs. Hamley, stroking
Molly's curls affectionately. 'I've made such an idol of my beautiful
Osborne; and he turns out to have feet of clay, not strong enough to
stand firm on the ground. And that's the best view of his conduct,
too!'

What with his anger against his son, and his anxiety about his wife:
the difficulty of raising the money immediately required, and his
irritation at the scarce-concealed inquiries made by strangers as to
the value of his property, the poor squire was in a sad state. He was
angry and impatient with every one who came near him; and then was
depressed at his own violent temper and unjust words. The old servants,
who, perhaps, cheated him in many small things, were beautifully
patient under his upbraidings. They could understand bursts of passion,
and knew the cause of his variable moods as well as he did himself. The
butler, who was accustomed to argue with his master about every fresh
direction as to his work, now nudged Molly at dinner-time to make her
eat of some dish which she had just been declining, and explained his
conduct afterwards as follows,--

'You see, miss, me and cook had planned a dinner as would tempt master
to eat; but when you say, "No, thank you," when I hand you anything,
master never so much as looks at it. But if you takes a thing, and eats
with a relish, why first he waits, and then he looks, and by-and-by he
smells; and then he finds out as he's hungry, and falls to eating as
natural as a kitten takes to mewing. That's the reason, miss, as I gave
you a nudge and a wink, which no one knows better nor me was not
manners.'

Osborne's name was never mentioned during these tete-a-tete meals. The
squire asked Molly questions about Hollingford people, but did not seem
much to attend to her answers. He used also to ask her every day how
she thought that his wife was; but if Molly told the truth--that every
day seemed to make her weaker and weaker--he was almost savage with the
girl. He could not bear it; and he would not. Nay, once he was on the
point of dismissing Mr. Gibson because he insisted on a consultation
with Dr Nicholls, the great physician of the county.

'It's nonsense thinking her so ill as that--you know it's only the
delicacy she's had for years; and if you can't do her any good in such
a simple case--no pain--only weakness and nervousness--it is a simple
case, eh?--don't look in that puzzled way, man!--you'd better give her
up altogether, and I'll take her to Bath or Brighton,' or somewhere for
change, for in my opinion it's only moping and nervousness.'

But the squire's bluff florid face was pinched with anxiety, and worn
with the effort of being deaf to the footsteps of fate as he said these
words which belied his fears.

Mr. Gibson replied very quietly,--

'I shall go on coming to see her, and I know you will not forbid my
visits. But I shall bring Dr Nicholls with me the next time I come. I
may be mistaken in my treatment; and I wish to God he may say I am
mistaken in my apprehensions.'

'Don't tell me them! I cannot hear them!' cried the squire. 'Of course
we must all die; and she must too. But not the cleverest doctor in
England shall go about coolly meting out the life of such as her. I
dare say I shall die first. I hope I shall. But I'll knock any one down
who speaks to me of the death sitting within me. And, besides, I think
all doctors are ignorant quacks, pretending to knowledge they haven't
got. Ay, you may smile at me. I don't care. Unless you can tell me I
shall die first, neither you nor your Dr Nicholls shall come
prophesying and croaking about this house.'

Mr. Gibson went away, heavy at heart at the thought of Mrs. Hamley's
approaching death, but thinking little enough of the squire's speeches.
He had almost forgotten them, in fact, when about nine o'clock that
evening, a groom rode in from Hamley Hall in hot haste, with a note
from the squire.

DEAR GIBSON,--For God's sake forgive me if I was rude to-day. She is
much worse. Come and spend the night here. Write for Nicholls, and all
the physicians you want. Write before you start off here. They may give
her ease. There were Whitworth doctors much talked of in my youth for
curing people given up by the regular doctors; can't you get one of
them? I put myself in your hands. Sometimes I think it is the turning
point, and she'll rally after this bout. I trust all to you.

Yours ever,

R. HAMLEY.

P.S.--Molly is a treasure.--God help me!

Of course Mr. Gibson went; for the first time since his marriage
cutting short Mrs. Gibson's querulous lamentations over her life, as
involved in that of a doctor called out at all hours of day and night.

He brought Mrs. Hamley through this attack; and for a day or two the
squire's alarm and gratitude made him docile in Mr. Gibson's hands.
Then he returned to the idea of its being a crisis through which his
wife had passed; and that she was now on the way to recovery. But
the day after the consultation with Dr Nicholls, Mr. Gibson said to
Molly,--

'Molly! I've written to Osborne and Roger. Do you know Osborne's
address?'

'No, papa. He's in disgrace. I don't know if the squire knows; and she
has been too ill to write.'

'Never mind. I'll enclose it to Roger; whatever those lads may be to
others, there's as strong brotherly love as ever I saw, between the
two. Roger will know. And, Molly, they are sure to come home as soon as
they hear my report of their mother's state. I wish you'd tell the
squire what I've done. It's not a pleasant piece of work; and I'll tell
madam myself in my own way. I'd have told him if he'd been at home; but
you say he was obliged to go to Ashcombe on business.'

'Quite obliged. He was so sorry to miss you. But, papa, he will be so
angry! You don't know how mad he is against Osborne.'

Molly dreaded the squire's anger when she gave him her father's
message. She had seen quite enough of the domestic relations of the
Hamley family to understand that, underneath his old-fashioned
courtesy, and the pleasant hospitality he showed to her as a guest,
there was a strong will, and a vehement passionate temper, along with
that degree of obstinacy in prejudices (or 'opinions,' as he would have
called them) so common to those who have, neither in youth nor in
manhood, mixed largely with their kind. She had listened, day after
day, to Mrs. Hamley's plaintive murmurs as to the deep disgrace in
which Osborne was being held by his father--the prohibition of his
coming home; and she hardly knew how to begin to tell him that the
letter summoning Osborne had already been sent off.

Their dinners were _tete-a-tete_. The squire tried to make them
pleasant to Molly, feeling deeply grateful to her for the soothing
comfort she was to his wife. He made merry speeches, which sank away
into silence, and at which they each forgot to smile. He ordered up
rare wines, which she did not care for, but tasted out of complaisance.
He noticed that one day she had eaten some brown _buerre_ pears as if
she liked them; and as his trees had not produced many this year, he
gave directions that this particular kind should be sought for through
the neighbourhood. Molly felt that, in many ways, he was full of good-
will towards her; but it did not diminish her dread of touching on the
one sore point in the family. However, it had to be done, and that
without delay.

The great log was placed on the after-dinner fire, the hearth swept up,
the ponderous candles snuffed, and then the door was shut, and Molly
and the squire were left to their dessert. She sate at the side of the
table in her old place. That at the head was vacant; yet as no orders
had been given to the contrary, the plate and glasses and napkin were
always arranged as regularly and methodically as if Mrs. Hamley would
come in as usual. Indeed, sometimes, when the door by which she used to
enter was opened by any chance, Molly caught herself looking round as
if she expected to see the tall, languid figure in the elegant
draperies of rich silk and soft lace, which Mrs. Hamley was wont to
wear of an evening.

This evening, it struck her, as a new thought of pain, that into that
room she would come no more. She had fixed to give her father's message
at this very point of time; but something in her throat choked her, and
she hardly knew how to govern her voice. The squire got up and went to
the broad fire-place, to strike into the middle of the great log, and
split it up into blazing, sparkling pieces. His back was towards her.
Molly began, 'When papa was here to-day, he bade me tell you he had
written to Mr. Roger Hamley to say that--that he thought he had better
come home; and he enclosed a letter to Mr. Osborne Hamley to say the
same thing.'

The squire put down the poker, but he still kept his back to Molly.

'He sent for Osborne and Roger?' he asked, at length.

Molly answered, 'Yes.'

Then there was a dead silence, which Molly thought would never end. The
squire had placed his two hands on the high chimney-piece, and stood
leaning over the fire.

'Roger would have been down from Cambridge on the 18th,' said he. 'And
he has sent for Osborne, too! Did he know,'--he continued, turning
round to Molly, with something of the fierceness she had anticipated in
voice and look. In another moment he had dropped his voice. 'It is
right, quite right. I understand. It has come at length. Come! come!
Osborne has brought it on, though,' with a fresh access of anger in his
tones. 'She might have' (some word Molly could not hear--she thought it
sounded like 'lingered') 'but for that. I cannot forgive him; I
cannot.'

And then he suddenly left the room. While Molly sate there still, very
sad in her sympathy with all, he put his head in again,--

'Go to her, my dear; I cannot--not just yet. But I will soon. Just this
bit; and after that I won't lose a moment. You are a good girl. God
bless you!'

It is not to be supposed that Molly had remained all this time at the
Hall without interruption. Once or twice her father had brought her a
summons home. Molly thought she could perceive that he had brought it
unwillingly; in fact, it was Mrs. Gibson that had sent for her, almost,
as it were, to preserve a 'right of way' through her actions.

'You shall come back to-morrow, or the next day,' her father had said.
'But mamma seems to think people will put a bad construction on your
being so much way from home so soon after our marriage.'

'Oh, papa, I'm afraid Mrs. Hamley will miss me! I do so like being with
her.'

'I don't think it is likely she will miss you as much as she would have
done a month or two ago. She sleeps so much now, that she is scarcely
conscious of the lapse of time. I'll see that you come back here again
in a day or two.'

So out of the silence and the soft melancholy of the Hall Molly
returned into the all-pervading element of chatter and gossip at
Hollingford. Mrs. Gibson received her kindly enough. Once' she had a
smart new winter bonnet ready to give her as a present; but she did not
care to hear any particulars about the friends whom Molly had just
left; and her few remarks on the state of affairs at the Hall jarred
terribly on the sensitive Molly.

'What a time she lingers! Your papa never expected she would last half
so long after that attack. It must be very wearing work to them all; I
declare you look quite another creature since you went there. One can
only wish it mayn't last, for their sakes.'

'You don't know how the squire values every minute,' said Molly.

'Why, you say she sleeps a great deal, and doesn't talk much when she's
awake, and there's not the slightest hope for her. And yet, at such
times, people are kept on the tenterhooks with watching and waiting. I
know it by my dear Kirkpatrick. There really were days when I thought
it never would end. But we won't talk any more of such dismal things;
you've had quite enough of them, I'm sure, and it always makes me
melancholy to hear of illness and death; and yet your papa seems
sometimes as if he could talk of nothing else. I'm going to take you
out to-night, though, and that will give you something of a change; and
I've been getting Miss Rose to trim up one of my old gowns for you;
it's too tight for me. There's some talk of dancing,--it's at Mrs.
Edward's.'

'Oh, mamma, I cannot go!' cried Molly. 'I've been so much with her; and
she may be suffering so, or even dying--and I to be dancing!'

'Nonsense! You're no relation, so you need not feel it so much. I
wouldn't urge you, if she was likely to know about it and be hurt; but
as it is, it's all fixed that you are to go; and don't let us have any
nonsense about it. We might sit twirling our thumbs, and repeating
hymns all our lives long, if we were to do nothing else when people
were dying.'

'I cannot go,' repeated Molly. And, acting upon impulse, and almost to
her own surprise, she appealed to her father, who came into the room at
this very time. He contracted his dark eyebrows, and looked annoyed as
both wife and daughter poured their different sides of the argument
into his ears. He sate down in desperation of patience. When his turn
came to pronounce a decision, he said,--

'I suppose I can have some lunch? I went away at six this morning, and
there's nothing in the dining-room. I have to go off again directly.'

Molly started to the door; Mrs. Gibson made haste to ring the bell.

'Where are you going, Molly?' said she, sharply.

'Only to see about papa's lunch.'

'There are servants to do it; and I don't like your going into the
kitchen.'

'Come, Molly! sit down and be quiet,' said her father. 'One comes home
wanting peace and quietness--and food too. If I am to be appealed to,
which I beg I may not be another time, I settle that Molly stops home
this evening. I shall come back late and tired. See that I have
something ready to eat, goosey, and then I'll dress myself up in my
best, and go and fetch you home, my dear. I wish all these wedding
festivities were well over. Ready, is it? Then I'll go into the dining-
room and gorge myself. A doctor ought to be able to eat like a camel,
or like Major Dugald Dalgetty.'

It was well for Molly that callers came in just at this time, for Mrs.
Gibson was extremely annoyed. They told her some little local piece of
news, however, which filled up her mind; and Molly found that, if she
only expressed wonder enough at the engagement they had both heard of
from the departed callers, the previous discussion as to her
accompanying her stepmother or not might be entirely passed over. Not
entirely though; for the next morning she had to listen to a very
brilliantly touched-up account of the dance and the gaiety which she
had missed; and also to be told that Mrs. Gibson had changed her mind
about giving her the gown, and thought now that she should reserve it
for Cynthia, if only it was long enough; but Cynthia was so tall--quite
overgrown, in fact. The chances seemed equally balanced as to whether
Molly might not have the gown after all.




CHAPTER XVIII

MR OSBORNE'S SECRET


Osborne and Roger came to the Hall; Molly found Roger established there
when she returned after this absence at home. She gathered that Osborne
was coming; but very little was said about him in any way. The Squire
scarcely ever left his wife's room now; he sat by her, watching her,
and now and then moaning to himself. She was so much under the
influence of opiates that she did not often rouse up; but when she did,
she almost invariably asked for Molly. On these rare occasions, she
would ask after Osborne--where he was, if he had been told, and if he
was coming? In her weakened and confused state of intellect she seemed
to have retained two strong impressions--one, of the sympathy with
which Molly had received her confidence about Osborne; the other, of
the anger which her husband entertained against him. Before the squire
she never mentioned Osborne's name; nor did she seem at her ease in
speaking about him to Roger; while, when she was alone with Molly, she
hardly spoke of any one else. She must have had some sort of wandering
idea that Roger blamed his brother, while she remembered Molly's eager
defence, which she had thought hopelessly improbable at the time. At
any rate she made Molly her confidante about her first-born. She sent
her to ask Roger how soon he would come, for she seemed to know
perfectly well that he was coming.

'Tell me all Roger says. He will tell you.'

But it was several days before Molly could ask Roger any questions; and
meanwhile Mrs. Hamley's state had materially altered. At length Molly
came upon Roger sitting in the library, his head buried in his hands.
He did not hear her footstep till she was close beside him. Then he
lifted up his face, red, and stained with tears, his hair all ruffled
up and in disorder.

'I've been wanting to see you alone,' she began. 'Your mother does so
want some news of your brother Osborne. She told me last week to ask
you about him, but I did not like to speak of him before your father.'

'She has hardly ever named him to me.'

'I don't know why; for to me she used to talk of him perpetually. I
have seen so little of her this week, and I think she forgets a great
deal now. Still, if you don't mind, I should like to be able to tell
her something if she asks me again.'

He put his head again between his hands, and did not answer her for
some time.

'What does she want to know?' said he, at last. 'Does she know that
Osborne is coming soon--any day?'

'Yes. But she wants to know where he is.'

'I can't tell you. I don't exactly know. I believe he's abroad, but I'm
not sure.'

'But you've sent papa's letter to him?'

'I've sent it to a friend of his who will know better than I do where
he's to be found. You must know that he isn't free from creditors,
Molly. You can't have been one of the family, like a child of the house
almost, without knowing that much. For that and for some other reasons
I don't exactly know where he is.'

'I will tell her so. You are sure he will come?'

'Quite sure. But, Molly, I think my mother may live some time yet;
don't you? Dr Nicholls said so yesterday when he was here with your
father. He said she had rallied more than he had ever expected. You're
not afraid of any change that makes you so anxious for Osborne's
coming?'

'No. It's only for her that I asked. She did seem so to crave for news
of him. I think she dreamed of him; and then when she wakened it was a
relief to her to talk about him to me. She always seemed to associate
me with him. We used to speak so much of him when we were together.'

'I don't know what we should any of us have done without you. You've
been like a daughter to my mother.'

'I do so love her,' said Molly, softly.

'Yes; I see. Have you ever noticed that she sometimes calls you
"Fanny"? It was the name of a little sister of ours who died. I think
she often takes you for her. It was partly that, and partly that at
such a time as this one can't stand on formalities, that made me call
you Molly. I hope you don't mind it?'

'No; I like it. But will you tell me something more about your brother?
She really hungers for news of him.'

'She'd better ask me herself. Yet, no! I am so involved by promises of
secrecy, Molly, that I couldn't satisfy her if she once began to
question me. I believe he's in Belgium, and that he went there about a
fortnight ago, partly to avoid his creditors. You know my father has
refused to pay his debts?'

'Yes; at least, I knew something like it.'

'I don't believe my father could raise the money all at once without
having recourse to steps which he would exceedingly recoil from. Yet
for the time it places Osborne in a very awkward position.'

'I think what vexes your father a good deal is some mystery as to how
the money was spent.'

'If my mother ever says anything about that part of the affair,' said
Roger, hastily, 'assure her from me that there's nothing of vice or
wrong-doing about it. I can't say more: I'm tied. But set her mind at
ease on this point.'

'I'm not sure if she remembers all her painful anxiety about this,'
said Molly. 'She used to speak a great deal to me about him before you
came, when your father seemed so angry. And now, whenever she sees me
she wants to talk on the old subject; but she doesn't remember so
clearly. If she were to see him I don't believe she would recollect why
she was uneasy about him while he was absent.'

'He must be here soon. I expect him every day,' said Roger, uneasily.

'Do you think your father will be very angry with him?' asked Molly,
with as much timidity as if the squire's displeasure might be directed
against her.

'I don't know,' said Roger. 'My mother's illness may alter him; but he
didn't easily forgive us formerly. I remember once--but that is nothing
to the purpose. I can't help fancying that he has put himself under some
strong restraint for my mother's sake, and that he won't express much.
But it doesn't follow that he will forget it. My father is a man of few
affections, but what he has are very strong; he feels anything that
touches him on these points deeply and permanently. That unlucky valuing
of the property! It has given my father the idea of post-obits--'

'What are they?' asked Molly.

'Raising money to be paid on my father's death, which, of course,
involves calculations as to the duration of his life.'

'How shocking!' said she.

'I'm as sure as I am of my own life that Osborne never did anything of
the kind. But my father expressed his suspicions in language that
irritated Osborne; and he doesn't speak out, and won't justify himself
even as much as he might; and, much as he loves me, I've but little
influence over him, or else he would tell my father all. Well, we must
leave it to time,' he added, sighing. 'My mother would have brought us
all right, if she'd been what she once was.'

He turned away leaving Molly very sad. She knew that every member of
the family she cared for so much was in trouble, out of which she saw
no exit; and her small power of helping them was diminishing day by day
as Mrs. Hamley sank more and more under the influence of opiates and
stupefying illness. Her father had spoken to her only this very day of
the desirableness of her returning home for good. Mrs. Gibson wanted
her--for no particular reason, but for many small fragments of reasons.
Mrs. Hamley had ceased to want her much, only occasionally appearing to
remember her existence. Her position (her father thought--the idea had
not entered her head) in a family of which the only woman was an
invalid confined to bed, was becoming awkward. But Molly had begged
hard to remain two or three days longer--only that--only till Friday.
If Mrs. Hamley should want her (she argued, with tears in her eyes),
and should hear that she had left the house, she would think her so
unkind, so ungrateful!

'My dear child, she's getting past wanting any one! The keenness of
earthly feelings is deadened.'

'Papa, that is worst of all. I cannot bear it. I won't believe it. She
may not ask for me again, and may quite forget me; but I'm sure, to the
very last, if the medicines don't stupefy her, she will look round for
the squire and her children. For poor Osborne most of all; because he's
in sorrow.'

Mr. Gibson shook his head, but said nothing in reply. In a minute or
two he asked,--

'I don't like to take you away while you even fancy you can be of use
or comfort to one who has been so kind to you. But, if she hasn't
wanted you before Friday, will you be convinced, will you come home
willingly?'

'If I go then, I may see her once again, even if she hasn't asked for
me?' inquired Molly.

'Yes, of course. You must make no noise, no step; but you may go in and
see her. I must tell you, I'm almost certain she won't ask for you.'

'But she may, papa. I will go home on Friday, if she has not. I think
she will.'

So Molly hung about the house, trying to do all she could out of the
sick-room, for the comfort of those in it. They only came out for
meals, or for necessary business, and found little time for talking to
her, so her life was solitary enough, waiting for the call that never
came. The evening of the day on which she had had the above
conversation with Roger, Osborne arrived. He came straight into the
drawing-room, where Molly was seated on the rug, reading by firelight,
as she did not like to ring for candies merely for her own use. Osborne
came in, with a kind of hurry, which almost made him appear as if he
would trip himself up, and fall down. Molly rose. He had not noticed
her before; now he came forwards, and took hold of both her hands,
leading her into the full flickering light, and straining his eyes to
look into her face.

'How is she? You will tell me--you must know the truth! I've travelled
day and night since I got your father's letter.'

Before she could frame her answer, he had sate down in the nearest
chair, covering his eyes with his hand.

'She's very ill,' said Molly. 'That you know; but I don't think she
suffers much pain. She has wanted you sadly.'

He groaned aloud. 'My father forbade me to come.'

'I know!' said Molly, anxious to prevent his self-reproach. 'Your
brother was away, too. I think no one knew how ill she was--she had
been an invalid for so long.'

'You know--Yes! she told you a great deal--she was very fond of you.
And God knows how I loved her. If I had not been forbidden to come
home, I should have told her all. Does my father know of my coming
now?'

'Yes,' said Molly; 'I told him papa had sent for you.'

Just at that moment the squire came in. He had not heard of Osborne's
arrival, and was seeking Molly to ask her to write a letter for him.

Osborne did not stand up when his father entered. He was too much
exhausted, too much oppressed by his feelings, and also too much
estranged by his father's angry, suspicious letters. If he had come
forwards with any manifestation of feeling at this moment, everything
might have been different. But he waited for his father to see him
before he uttered a word. All that the squire said when his eye fell
upon him at last was,--

'You here, sir!'

And, breaking off in the directions he was giving to Molly, he abruptly
left the room. All the time his heart was yearning after his first-
born; but mutual pride kept them asunder. Yet he went straight to the
butler, and asked of him when Mr. Osborne had arrived, and how he had
come and if he had had any refreshment--dinner or what--since his
arrival?

'For I think I forget everything now!' said the poor squire, putting
his hand up to his head. 'For the life of me, I can't remember whether
we've had dinner or not; these long nights, and all this sorrow and
watching, quite bewilder me.'

'Perhaps, sir, you will take some dinner with Mr. Osborne. Mrs. Morgan
is sending up his directly. You hardly sate down at dinner-time, sir,
you thought my mistress wanted something.'

'Ay! I remember now. No! I won't have any more. Give Mr. Osborne what
wine he chooses. Perhaps he can eat and drink.' So the squire went away
upstairs with bitterness as well as sorrow in his heart.

When lights were brought, Molly was struck with the change in Osborne.
He looked haggard and worn; perhaps with travelling and anxiety. Not
quite such a dainty gentleman either, as Molly had thought him, when
she had last seen him calling on her stepmother, two months before. But
she liked him better now. The tone of his remarks pleased her more. He
was simpler, and less ashamed of showing his feelings. He asked after
Roger in a warm, longing kind of way. Roger was out: he had ridden to
Ashcombe to transact some business for the squire. Osborne evidently
wished for his return; and hung about restlessly in the drawing-room
after he had dined.

'You are sure I may not see her to-night?' he asked Molly, for the
third or fourth time. 'No, indeed. I will go up again if you like it.
But Mrs. Jones, the nurse Dr Nicholls sent, is a very decided person. I
went up while you were at dinner, and Mrs. Hamley had just taken her
drops, and was on no account to be disturbed by seeing any one, much
less by any excitement.'

Osborne kept walking up and down the long drawing-room, half talking to
himself, half to Molly.

'I wish Roger would come. He seems to be the only one to give me a
welcome. Does my father always live upstairs in my mother's rooms, Miss
Gibson?'

'He has done since her last attack. I believe he reproaches himself for
not having been enough alarmed before.'

'You heard all the words he said to me: they were not much of a
welcome, were they? And my dear mother, who always--whether I was to
blame or not--I suppose Roger is sure to come home to-night?'

'Quite sure.'

'You are staying here, are you not? Do you often see my mother, or does
this omnipotent nurse keep you out too?'

'Mrs. Hamley hasn't asked for me for three days now, and I don't go
into her room unless she asks. I'm leaving on Friday, I believe.'

'My mother was very fond of you, I know.'

After a while he said, in a voice that had a great deal of sensitive
pain in its tone,--

'I suppose--do you know whether she is quite conscious--quite herself?'

'Not always conscious,' said Molly, tenderly. 'She has to take so many
opiates. But she never wanders, only forgets, and sleeps.'

'Oh, mother, mother!' said he, stopping suddenly, and hanging over the
fire, his hands on the chimney-piece.

When Roger came home, Molly thought it time to retire. Poor girl! it
was getting to be time for her to leave this scene of distress in which
she could be of no use. She sobbed herself to sleep this Tuesday night.
Two days more, and it would be Friday; and she would have to wrench up
the roots she had shot down into this ground. The weather was bright
the next morning; and morning and sunny weather cheer up young hearts.
Molly sate in the dining-room making tea for the gentlemen as they came
down. She could not help hoping that the squire and Osborne might come
to a better understanding before she left; for after all, in the
discussion between father and son, lay a bitterer sting than in the
illness sent by God. But though they met at the breakfast-table, they
purposely avoided addressing each other. Perhaps the natural subject of
conversation between the two, at such a time, would have been Osborne's
long journey the night before; but he had never spoken of the place he
had come from, whether north, south, east, or west, and the squire did
not choose to allude to anything that might bring out what his son
wished to conceal. Again, there was an unexpressed idea in both their
minds that Mrs. Hamley's present illness was much aggravated, if not
entirely brought on, by the discovery of Osborne's debts; so, many
inquiries and answers on that head were tabooed. In fact, their
attempts at easy conversation were limited to local subjects, and
principally addressed to Molly or Roger. Such intercourse was not
productive of pleasure, or even of friendly feeling, though there was a
thin outward surface of politeness and peace. Long before the day was
over, Molly wished that she had acceded to her father's proposal, and
gone home with him. No one seemed to want her. Mrs Jones, the nurse,
assured her time after time that Mrs. Hamley had never named her name;
and her small services in the sickroom were not required since there
was a regular nurse. Osborne and Roger seemed all in all to each other;
and Molly now felt how much the short conversations she had had with
Roger had served to give her something to think about, all during the
remainder of her solitary days. Osborne was extremely polite, and even
expressed his gratitude to her for her attentions to his mother in a
very pleasant manner; but he appeared to be unwilling to show her any
of the deeper feelings of his heart, and almost ashamed of his
exhibition of emotion the night before. He spoke to her as any
agreeable young man speaks to any pleasant young lady; but Molly almost
resented this. It was only the squire who seemed to make her of any
account. He gave her letters to write, small bills to reckon up; and
she could have kissed his hands for thankfulness.

The last afternoon of her stay at the Hall came. Roger had gone out on
the squire's business. Molly went into the garden, thinking over the
last summer, when Mrs. Hamley's sofa used to be placed under the old
cedar-tree on the lawn, and when the warm air seemed to be scented with
roses and sweetbrier. Now, the trees were leafless,--there was no sweet
odour in the keen frosty air; and looking up at the house, there were
the white sheets of blinds, shutting out the pale winter sky from the
invalid's room. Then she thought of the day her father had brought her
the news of his second marriage: the thicket was tangled with dead
weeds and rime and hoarfrost; and the beautiful fine articulation of
branches and boughs and delicate twigs were all intertwined in leafless
distinctness against the sky. Could she ever be so passionately unhappy
again? Was it goodness, or was it numbness, that made her feel as
though life was too short to be troubled much about anything? death
seemed the only reality. She had neither energy nor heart to walk far
or briskly; and turned back towards the house. The afternoon sun was
shining brightly on the windows; and, stirred up to unusual activity by
some unknown cause, the housemaids had opened the shutters and windows
of the generally unused library. The middle window was also a door; the
white-painted wood went half-way up. Molly turned along the little
flag-paved path that led past the library windows to the gate in the
white railings at the front of the house, and went in at the opened
doors. She had had leave given to choose out any books she wished to
read, and to take them home with her; and it was just the sort of half-
dawdling employment suited to her taste this afternoon. She mounted on
the ladder to get to a particular shelf high up in dark corner of the
room; and finding there some volume that looked interesting, she sate
down on the step to read part of it. There she sate, in her bonnet and
cloak, when Osborne suddenly came in. He did not see her at first;
indeed, he seemed in such a hurry that he probably might not have
noticed her at all, if she had not spoken.

'Am I in your way? I only came here for a minute to look for some
books.' She came down the steps as she spoke, still holding the book in
her hand.

'Not at all. It is I who am disturbing you. I must just write a letter
for the post, and then I shall be gone. Is not this open door too cold
for you?'

'Oh, no. It is so fresh and pleasant.'

She began to read again, sitting on the lowest step of the ladder; he
to write at the large old-fashioned writing-table close to the window.
There was a minute or two of profound silence, in which the rapid
scratching of Osborne's pen upon the paper was the only sound. Then
came a click of the gate, and Roger stood at the open door. His face
was towards Osborne, sitting in the light; his back to Molly, crouched
up in her corner. He held out a letter, and said in hoarse
breathlessness,--

'Here's a letter from your wife, Osborne. I went past the post-office
and thought--'

Osborne stood up, angry dismay upon his face.

'Roger! what have you done! Don't you see her?'

Roger looked round, and Molly stood up in her corner, red, trembling,
miserable, as though she were a guilty person. Roger entered the room.
All three seemed to be equally dismayed. Molly was the first to speak;
she came forwards and said,--

'I am so sorry! You didn't wish me to hear it, but I couldn't help it.
You will trust me, won't you?' and turning to Roger she said to him
with tears in her eyes,--'Please say you know I shall not tell.'

'We can't help it,' said Osborne, gloomily. 'Only Roger, who knew of
what importance it was, ought to have looked round him before
speaking.'

'So I should,' said Roger. 'I'm more vexed with myself than you can
conceive. Not but what I'm sure of you as of myself,' continued he,
turning to Molly.

'Yes; but,' said Osborne, 'you see how many chances there are that even
the best-meaning persons may let out what it is of such consequence to
me to keep secret.'

'I know you think it so,' said Roger.

'Well, don't let us begin that old discussion again--at any rate, not
before a third person.'

Molly had had hard work all this time to keep from crying. Now that she
was alluded to as the third person before whom conversation was to be
restrained, she said,--

'I'm going away. Perhaps I ought not to have been here. I'm very sorry
--very. But I will try and forget what I've heard.'

'You can't do that,' said Osborne, still ungraciously. 'But will you
promise me never to speak about it to any one--not even to me, or to
Roger? Will you try to act and speak as if you had never heard it? I'm
sure, from what Roger has told me about you, that if you give me this
promise I may rely upon it.'

'Yes; I will promise,' said Molly, putting out her hand as a kind of
pledge. Osborne took it, but rather as if the action was superfluous.
She added, 'I think I should have done so, even without a promise. But
it is, perhaps, better to bind oneself. I will go away now. I wish I'd
never come into this room.'

She put down her book on the table very softly, and turned to leave the
room, choking down her tears until she was in the solitude of her own
chamber. But Roger was at the door before her, holding it open for her,
and reading--she felt that he was reading--her face. He held out his
band for hers, and his firm grasp expressed both sympathy and regret
for what had occurred.

She could hardly keep back her sobs till she reached her bedroom. Her
feelings had been overwrought for some time past, without finding the
natural vent in action. The leaving Hamley Hall had seemed so sad
before; and now she was troubled with having to bear away a secret
which she ought never to have known, and the knowledge of which had
brought out a very uncomfortable responsibility. Then there would arise
a very natural wonder as to who was Osborne's wife. Molly had not
stayed so long and so intimately in the Hamley family without being
well aware of the manner in which the future lady of Hamley was planned
for. The squire, for instance, partly in order to show that Osborne,
his heir, was above the reach of Molly Gibson, the doctor's daughter,
in the early days before he knew Molly well, had often alluded to the
grand, the high, and the wealthy marriage which Hamley of Hamley, as
represented by his clever, brilliant, handsome son Osborne, might be
expected to make. Mrs. Hamley, too, unconsciously on her part, showed
the projects that she was constantly devising for the reception of the
unknown daughter-in-law that was to be.

'The drawing-room must be refurnished when Osborne marries'--or
'Osborne's wife will like to have the west suite of rooms to herself;
it will perhaps be a trial to her to live with the old couple; but we
must arrange it so that she will feel it as little as possible'--'Of
course, when Mrs. Osborne comes we must try and give her a new
carriage; the old one does well enough for us'--these, and similar
speeches had given Molly the impression of the future Mrs Osborne as of
some beautiful grand young lady, whose very presence would make the old
Hall into a stately, formal mansion, instead of the pleasant,
unceremonious home that it was at present. Osborne, too, who had spoken
with such languid criticism to Mrs. Gibson about various country
belles, and even in his own home was apt to give himself airs--only at
home his airs were poetically fastidious, while with Mrs. Gibson they
had been socially fastidious--what unspeakably elegant beauty had he
chosen for his wife? Who had satisfied him; and yet satisfying him, had
to have her marriage kept in concealment from his parents? At length
Molly tore herself up from her wanderings. It was of no use: she could
not find out; she might not even try. The blank wall of her promise
blocked up the way. Perhaps it was not even right to wonder, and
endeavour to remember slight speeches, casual mentions of a name, so as
to piece them together into something coherent. Molly dreaded seeing
either of the brothers again; but they all met at dinner-time as if
nothing had happened. The squire was taciturn, either from melancholy
or displeasure. He had never spoken to Osborne since his return,
excepting about the commonest trifles, when intercourse could not be
avoided; and his wife's state oppressed him like a heavy cloud coming
over the light of his day. Osborne put on an indifferent manner to his
father, which Molly felt sure was assumed; but it was not conciliatory,
for all that. Roger, quiet, steady, and natural, talked more than all
the others; but he too was uneasy, and in distress on many accounts.
To-day he principally addressed himself to Molly; entering into rather
long narrations of late discoveries in natural history, which kept up
the current of talk without requiring much reply from any one, Molly
had expected Osborne to look something different from usual--conscious,
or ashamed, or resentful, or even 'married'--but he was exactly the
Osborne of the morning--handsome, elegant, languid in manner and in
look; cordial with his brother, polite towards her, secretly uneasy at
the state of things between his father and himself. She would never
have guessed the concealed romance which lay _perdu_ under that every-
day behaviour. She had always wished to come into direct contact with a
love-story: here she was, and she only found it very uncomfortable;
there was a sense of concealment and uncertainty about it all; and her
honest straightforward father, her quiet life at Hollingford, which,
even with all its drawbacks, was above-board, and where everybody knew
what everybody was doing, seemed secure and pleasant in comparison. Of
course she felt great pain at quitting the Hall, and at the mute
farewell she had taken of her sleeping and unconscious friend. But
leaving Mrs. Hamley now was a different thing to what it had been a
fortnight ago. Then she was wanted at any moment, and felt herself to
be of comfort. Now her very existence seemed forgotten by the poor lady
whose body appeared to be living so long after her soul.

She was sent home in the carriage, loaded with true thanks from every
one of the family. Osborne ransacked the houses for flowers for her;
Roger had chosen her out books of every kind. The squire himself kept
shaking her hand, without being able to speak his gratitude, till at
last he had taken her in his arms, and kissed her as he would have done
a daughter.




CHAPTER XIX

CYNTHIA'S ARRIVAL


Molly's father was not at home when she returned; and there was no one
to give her a welcome. Mrs. Gibson was out paying calls, the servants
told Molly. She went upstairs to her own room, meaning to unpack and
arrange her borrowed books, Rather to her surprise she saw the chamber,
corresponding to her own, being dusted; water and towels too were being
carried in.

'Is any one coming?' she asked of the housemaid.

'Missus's daughter from France. Miss Kirkpatrick is coming to-morrow.'

Was Cynthia coming at last? Oh, what a pleasure it would be to have a
companion, a girl, a sister of her own age! Molly's depressed spirits
sprang up again with bright elasticity. She longed for Mrs Gibson's
return, to ask her all about it: it must be very sudden, for Mr. Gibson
had said nothing of it at the Hall the day before. No quiet reading
now; the books were hardly put away with Molly's usual neatness. She
went down into the drawing-room, and could not settle to anything. At
last Mrs. Gibson came home, tired out with her walk and her heavy
velvet cloak. Until that was taken off, and she had rested herself for
a few minutes, she seemed quite unable to attend to Molly's questions.

'Oh, yes! Cynthia is coming home to-morrow, by the "Umpire," which
passes through at ten o'clock. What an oppressive day it is for the
time of the year! I really am almost ready to faint. Cynthia heard of
some opportunity, I believe, and was only too glad to leave school a
fortnight earlier than we planned. She never gave me the chance of
writing to say I did, or did not, like her coming so much before the
time; and I shall have to pay for her just the same as if she had
stopped. And I meant to have asked her to bring me a French bonnet; and
then you could have had one made after mine. But I'm very glad she's
coming, poor dear.'

'Is anything the matter with her?' asked Molly.

'Oh, no! Why should there be?'

'You called her "poor dear," and it made me afraid lest she might be
ill.'

'Oh, no! It's only a way I got into, when Mr. Kirkpatrick died. A
fatherless girl--you know one always does call them "poor dears." Oh,
no! Cynthia never is ill. She's as strong as a horse. She never would
have felt to-day as I have done. Could you get me a glass of wine and a
biscuit, my dear? I'm. really quite faint.'

Mr. Gibson was much more excited about Cynthia's arrival than her own
mother was. He anticipated her coming as a great pleasure to Molly, on
whom, in spite of his recent marriage and his new wife, his interests
principally centred. He even found time to run upstairs and see the
bedrooms of the two girls; for the furniture of which he had paid a
pretty round sum.

'Well, I suppose young ladies like their bedrooms decked out in this
way! It's very pretty certainly, but--'

'I liked my own old room better, papa; but perhaps Cynthia is
accustomed to such decking up.'

'Perhaps; at any rate, she'll see we've tried to make it pretty. Yours
is like hers. That's right. It might have hurt her, if hers had been
smarter than yours. Now, good-night in your fine flimsy bed.'

Molly was up betimes--almost before it was light--arranging her pretty
Hamley flowers in Cynthia's room. She could hardly eat her breakfast
that morning. She ran upstairs and put on her things, thinking that
Mrs. Gibson was quite sure to go down to the 'George' Inn, where the
'Umpire' stopped, to meet her daughter after a two years' absence. But
to her surprise Mrs. Gibson had arranged herself at her great worsted-
work frame, just as usual; and she, in her turn, was astonished at
Molly's bonnet and cloak.

'Where are you going so early, child? The fog hasn't cleared away yet.'

'I thought you would go and meet Cynthia; and I wanted to go with you.'

'She will be here in half an hour; and dear papa has told the gardener
to take the wheelbarrow down for her luggage. I'm not sure if he is not
gone himself.'

'Then are not you going?' asked Molly, with a good deal of
disappointment.

'No, certainly not. She will be here almost directly. And, besides, I
don't like to expose my feelings to every passer-by in High Street. You
forget I have not seen her for two years, and I hate scenes in the
market-place.'

She settled herself to her work again; and Molly, after some
consideration, gave up her own going, and employed herself in looking
out of the downstairs window which commanded the approach from the
town.

'Here she is--here she is!' she cried out at last. Her father was
walking by the side of a tall young lady; William the gardener was
wheeling along a great cargo of luggage. Molly flew to the front-door,
and had it wide open to admit the new comer some time before she
arrived.

'Well! here she is. Molly, this is Cynthia. Cynthia, Molly. You're to
be sisters, you know.'

Molly saw the beautiful, tall, swaying figure, against the light of the
open door, but could not see any of the features that were, for the
moment, in shadow. A sudden gush of shyness had come over her just at
the instant, and quenched the embrace she would have given a moment
before. But Cynthia took her in her arms, and kissed her on both
cheeks.

'Here's mamma,' she said, looking beyond Molly on to the stairs where
Mrs. Gibson stood, wrapped up in a shawl, and shivering in the cold.
She ran past Molly and Mr. Gibson, who rather averted their eyes from
this first greeting between mother and child.

Mrs. Gibson said,--

'Why, how you are grown, darling! You look quite a woman.'

'And so I am,' said Cynthia. 'I was before I went away; I've hardly
grown since,--except, it is always to be hoped, in wisdom.'

'Yes! That we will hope,' said Mrs. Gibson, in rather a meaning way.
Indeed there were evidently hidden allusions in their seeming
commonplace speeches. When they all came into the full light and repose
of the drawing-room, Molly was absorbed in the contemplation of
Cynthia's beauty. Perhaps her features were not regular; but the
changes in her expressive countenance gave one no time to think of
that. Her smile was perfect; her pouting charming; the play of the face
was in the mouth. Her eyes were beautifully shaped, but their
expression hardly seemed to vary. In colouring she was not unlike her
mother; only she had not so much of the red-haired tints in her
complexion; and her long-shaped, serious grey eyes were fringed with
dark lashes, instead of her mother's insipid flaxen ones. Molly fell in
love with her, so to speak, on the instant. She sate there warming her
feet and hands, as much at her ease as if she had been there all her
life; not particularly attending to her mother--who, all the time, was
studying either her or her dress--measuring Molly and Mr. Gibson with
grave observant looks, as if guessing how she should like them.

'There's hot breakfast ready for you in the dining-room, when you are
ready for it,' said Mr. Gibson. 'I'm sure you must want it after your
night journey.' He looked round at his wife, at Cynthia's mother, but
she did not seem inclined to leave the warm room again.

'Molly will take you to your room, darling,' said she; 'it is near
hers, and she has got her things to take off. I'll come down and sit in
the dining-room while you are having your breakfast, but I really am
afraid of the cold now.'

Cynthia rose and followed Molly upstairs.

'I'm so sorry there isn't a fire for you,' said Molly, 'but--I suppose
it wasn't ordered; and, of course, I don't give any orders. Here is
some hot water, though.'

'Stop a minute,' said Cynthia, getting hold of both Molly's hands, and
looking steadily into her face, but in such a manner that she did not
dislike the inspection.

'I think I shall like you. I am go glad! I was afraid I should not.
We're all in a very awkward position together, aren't we? I like your
father's looks, though.'

Molly could not help smiling at the way this was said. Cynthia replied
to her smile.

'Ah, you may laugh. But I don't know that I am easy to get on with;
mamma and I didn't suit when we were last together. But perhaps we are
each of us wiser now. Now, please leave me for a quarter of an hour. I
don't want anything more.'

Molly went into her own room, waiting to show Cynthia down to the
dining-room. Not that, in the moderate-sized house, there was any
difficulty in finding the way. A very little trouble in conjecturing
would enable a stranger to discover any room. But Cynthia had so
captivated Molly, that she wanted to devote herself to the new comer's
service. Ever since she had heard of the probability of her having a
sister--(she called her a sister, but whether it was a Scotch sister,
or a sister _a la mode de Bretagne_, would have puzzled most people)
--Molly had allowed her fancy to dwell much on the idea of Cynthia's
coming; and in the short time since they had met, Cynthia's unconscious
power of fascination had been exercised upon her. Some people have this
power. Of course, its effects are only manifested in the susceptible.
A school-girl may be found in every school who attracts and influences
all the others, not by her virtues, nor her beauty, nor her sweetness,
nor her cleverness, but by something that can neither be described nor
reasoned upon. It is the something alluded to in the old lines:--

    'Love me not for comely grace,
     For my pleasing eye and face;
     No, nor for my constant heart,--
     For these may change, and turn to ill,
     And thus true love may sever.
     But love me on, and know not why,
     So hast thou the same reason still
     To dote upon me ever.'

A woman will have this charm, not only over men but over her own sex;
it cannot be defined, or rather it is so delicate a mixture of many
gifts and qualities that it is impossible to decide on the proportions
of each. Perhaps it is incompatible with very high principle; as its
essence seems to consist in the most exquisite power of adaptation to
varying people and still more various moods; 'being all things to all
men.' At any rate, Molly might soon have been aware that Cynthia was
not remarkable for unflinching morality; but the glamour thrown over
her would have prevented Molly from any attempt at penetrating into and
judging her companion's character, even had such processes been the
least in accordance with her own disposition.

Cynthia was very beautiful, and was so well aware of this fact that she
had forgotten to care about it; no one with such loveliness ever
appeared so little conscious of it. Molly would watch her perpetually
as she moved about the room, with the free stately step of some wild
animal of the forest--moving almost, as it were, to the continual sound
of music. Her dress, too, though now to our ideas it would be
considered ugly and disfiguring, was suited to her complexion and
figure, and the fashion of it subdued within due bounds by her
exquisite taste. It was inexpensive enough, and the changes in it were
but few. Mrs. Gibson professed herself shocked to find that Cynthia had
but four gowns, when she might have stocked herself so well, and
brought over so many useful French patterns, if she had but patiently
awaited her mother's answer to the letter which she had sent announcing
her return by the opportunity madame had found for her. Molly was hurt
for Cynthia at all these speeches; she thought they implied that the
pleasure which her mother felt in seeing her a fortnight sooner after
her two years' absence was inferior to that which she would have
received from a bundle of silver-paper patterns. But Cynthia took no
apparent notice of the frequent recurrence of these small complaints.
Indeed, she received much of what her mother said with a kind of
complete indifference, that made Mrs. Gibson hold her rather in awe;
and she was much more communicative to Molly than to her own child.
With regard to dress, however, Cynthia soon showed that she was her
mother's own daughter in the manner in which she could use her deft and
nimble fingers. She was a capital workwoman; and, unlike Molly, who
excelled in plain sewing, but had no notion of dressmaking or
millinery, she could repeat the fashions she had only seen in passing
along the streets of Boulogne, with one or two pretty rapid movements
of her hands, as she turned and twisted the ribbons and gauze her
mother furnished her with. So she refurbished Mrs. Gibson's wardrobe;
doing it all in a sort of contemptuous manner, the source of which
Molly could not quite make out.

Day after day the course of these small frivolities was broken in upon
by the news Mr. Gibson brought of Mrs. Hamley's nearer approach to
death. Molly--very often sitting by Cynthia, and surrounded by ribbon,
and wire, and net--heard the bulletins like the toll of a funeral bell
at a marriage feast. Her father sympathized with her. It was the loss
of a dear friend to him too; but he was so accustomed to death, that it
seemed to him but as it was, the natural end of all things human. To
Molly, the death of some one she had known so well and loved so much,
was a sad and gloomy phenomenon. She loathed the small vanities with
which she was surrounded, and would wander out into the frosty garden,
and pace the walk, which was both sheltered and concealed by
evergreens.

At length--and yet it was not so long, not a fortnight since Molly had
left the Hall--the end came. Mrs. Hamley had sunk out of life as
gradually as she had sunk out of consciousness and her place in this
world. The quiet waves closed over her, and her place knew her no more.

'They all sent their love to you, Molly,' said her father. 'Roger
Hamley said he knew how you would feel it.'

Mr. Gibson had come in very late, and was having a solitary dinner in
the dining-room. Molly was sitting near him to keep him company.
Cynthia and her mother were upstairs. The latter was trying on a head-
dress which Cynthia had made for her.

Molly remained downstairs after her father had gone out afresh on his
final round among his town patients. The fire was growing very low, and
the lights were waning. Cynthia came softly in, and taking Molly's
listless hand, that hung down by her side, sate at her feet on the rug,
chafing her chilly fingers without speaking. The tender action thawed
the tears that had been gathering heavily at Molly's heart, and they
came dropping down her cheeks.

'You loved her dearly, did you not, Molly?'

'Yes,' sobbed Molly; and then there was a silence.

'Had you known her long?'

'No, not a year. But I had seen a great deal of her. I was almost like
a daughter to her; she said so. Yet I never bid her good-by, or
anything. Her mind became weak and confused.'

'She had only sons, I think?'

'No; only Mr. Osborne and Mr. Roger Hamley. She had a daughter once--
"Fanny." Sometimes, in her illness, she used to call me "Fanny."'

The two girls were silent for some time, both gazing into the fire.
Cynthia spoke first,--

'I wish I could love people as you do, Molly!'

'Don't you?' said the other, in surprise.

'No. A good number of people love me, I believe, or at least they think
they do; but I never seem to care much for any one. I do believe I love
you, little Molly, whom I have only known for ten days, better than any
one.'

'Not than your mother?' said Molly, in grave astonishment.

'Yes, than my mother!' replied Cynthia, half-smiling. 'It's very
shocking, I daresay; but it is so. Now, don't go and condemn me. I
don't think love for one's mother quite comes by nature; and remember
how much I have been separated from mine! I loved my father, if you
will,' she continued, with the force of truth in her tone, and then she
stopped; 'but he died when I was quite a little thing, and no one
believes that I remember him. I heard mamma say to a caller, not a
fortnight after his funeral, "Oh, no, Cynthia is too young; she has
quite forgotten him"--and I bit my lips, to keep from crying out,
"Papa! papa! have I?" But it's of no use. Well, then mamma had to go
out as a governess; she couldn't help it, poor thing! but she didn't
much care for parting with me. I was a trouble, I daresay. So I was
sent to school at four years old; first one school, and then another;
and in the holidays, mamma went to stay at grand houses, and I was
generally left with the schoolmistresses. Once I went to the Towers;
and mamma lectured me continually, and yet I was very naughty, I
believe. And so I never went again; and I was very glad of it, for it
was a horrid place.'

'That it was,' said Molly, who remembered her own day of tribulation
there.

'And once I went to London, to stay with my uncle Kirkpatrick. He is a
lawyer, and getting on now; but then he was poor enough, and had six or
seven children. It was wintertime, and we were all shut up in a small
house in Doughty Street. But, after all, that wasn't so bad.'

'But then you lived with your mother when she began school at Ashcombe.
Mr. Preston told me that, when I stayed that day at the Manor-house.'

'What did he tell you?' asked Cynthia, almost fiercely.

'Nothing but that. Oh, yes! He praised your beauty, and wanted me to
tell you what he had said.'

'I should have hated you if you had,' said Cynthia.

'Of course I never thought of doing such a thing,' replied Molly. 'I
didn't like him; and Lady Harriet spoke of him the next day as if he
wasn't a person to be liked.'

Cynthia was quite silent. At length she said,--

'I wish I was good!'

'So do I,' said Molly, simply. She was thinking again of Mrs Hamley,--

    'Only the actions of the just
     Smell sweet and blossom in the dust'

--and 'goodness' just then seemed to her to be the only enduring thing
in the world.

'Nonsense, Molly! You are good. At least, if you're not good, what am
I? There's a rule-of-three sum for you to do! But it's no use talking;
I am not good, and I never shall be now. Perhaps I might be a heroine
still, but I shall never be a good woman, I know.'

'Do you think it easier to be a heroine?'

'Yes, as far as one knows of heroines from history. I'm capable of a
great jerk, an effort, and then a relaxation--but steady every-day
goodness is beyond me. I must be a moral kangaroo!'

Molly could not follow Cynthia's ideas; she could not distract herself
from the thoughts of the sorrowing group at the Hall.

'How I should like to see them all! and yet one can do nothing at such
a time! Papa says the funeral is to be on Tuesday, and that, after
that, Roger Hamley is to go back to Cambridge. It will seem as if
nothing had happened! I wonder how the squire and Mr. Osborne Hamley
will get on together.'

'He's the eldest son, is he not? Why shouldn't he and his father get on
well together?'

'Oh! I don't know. That is to say, I do know, but I think I ought not
to tell.'

'Don't be so pedantically truthful, Molly. Besides, your manner shows
when you speak truth and when you speak falsehood, without troubling
yourself to use words. I knew exactly what your "I don't know" meant. I
never consider myself bound to be truthful, so I beg we may be on equal
terms.'

Cynthia might well say she did not consider herself bound to be
truthful; she literally said what came uppermost, without caring very
much whether it was accurate or not. But there was no ill-nature, and,
in a general way, no attempt at procuring any advantage for herself in
all her deviations; and there was often such a latent sense of fun in
them that Molly could not help being amused with them in fact, though
she condemned them in theory. Cynthia's playfulness of manner glossed
such failings over with a kind of charm; and yet, at times, she was so
soft and sympathetic that Molly could not resist her, even when she
affirmed the most startling things. The little account she made of her
own beauty pleased Mr. Gibson extremely; and her pretty deference to
him won his heart. She was restless too, till she had attacked Molly's
dress, after she had remodelled her mother's.

'Now for you, sweet one,' said she as she began upon one of Molly's
gowns. 'I've been working as connoisseur until now. Now I begin as
amateur.'

She brought down her pretty artificial flowers, plucked out of her own
best bonnet to put into Molly's, saying they would suit her complexion,
and that a knot of ribbons would do well enough for her. All the time
she worked, she sang; she had a sweet voice in singing, as well as in
speaking, and used to run up and down her gay French chansons without
any difficulty; so flexible in the art was she. Yet she did not seem to
care for music. She rarely touched the piano, on which Molly practised
with daily conscientiousness. Cynthia was always willing to answer
questions about her previous life, though, after the first, she rarely
alluded to it of herself; but she was a most sympathetic listener to
all Molly's innocent confidences of joys and sorrows; sympathizing even
to the extent of wondering how she could endure Mr. Gibson's second
marriage, and why she did not take some active steps of rebellion.

In spite of all this agreeable and pungent variety of companionship at
home, Molly yearned after the Hamleys. If there had been a woman in
that family she would probably have received many little notes, and
heard of numerous details which were now lost to her, or summed up in
condensed accounts of her father's visits at the Hall, which, since his
dear patient was dead, were only occasional.

'Yes! The squire is a good deal changed; but he's better than he was.
There's an unspoken estrangement between him and Osborne; one can see
it in the silence and constraint of their manners; but outwardly they
are friendly--civil at any rate. The squire will always respect Osborne
as his heir, and the future representative of the family. Osborne
doesn't look well; he says he wants change. I think he's weary of
the domestic _tete-a-tete_, or domestic dissension. But he feels his
mother's death acutely. It's a wonder that he and his father are not
drawn together by their common loss. Roger's away at Cambridge too--
examination for the mathematical tripos. Altogether the aspect of both
people and place is changed; it is but natural!'

Such is perhaps the summing-up of the news of the Hamleys, as contained
in many bulletins. They always ended in some kind message to Molly.

Mrs. Gibson generally said, as a comment upon her husband's account of
Osborne's melancholy,--

'My dear! why don't you ask him to dinner here? A little quiet dinner,
you know. Cook is quite up to it; and we would all of us wear blacks
and lilacs;' he couldn't consider that as gaiety.'

Mr. Gibson took no more notice of these suggestions than by shaking his
head. He had grown accustomed to his wife by this time, and regarded
silence on his own part as a great preservative against long
inconsequential arguments. But every time that Mrs. Gibson was struck
by Cynthia's beauty, she thought it more and more advisable that Mr.
Osborne Hamley should be cheered up by a quiet little dinner-party. As
yet no one but the ladies of Hollingford and Mr Ashton, the vicar--that
hopeless and impracticable old bachelor--had seen Cynthia; and what
was the good of having a lovely daughter, if there were none but old
women to admire her?

Cynthia herself appeared extremely indifferent upon the subject, and
took very little notice of her mother's constant talk about the
gaieties that were possible, and the gaieties that were impossible, in
Hollingford. She exerted herself just as much to charm the two Miss
Brownings as she would have done to delight Osborne Hamley, or any
other young heir. That is to say, she used no exertion, but simply
followed her own nature, which was to attract every one of those she
was thrown amongst. The exertion seemed rather to be to refrain from
doing so, and to protest, as she so often did, by slight words and
expressive looks against her mother's words and humours--alike against
her folly and her caresses. Molly was almost sorry for Mrs. Gibson, who
seemed so unable to gain influence over her child. One day Cynthia read
Molly's thought.

'I am not good, and I told you so. Somehow I cannot forgive her for her
neglect of me as a child, when I would have clung to her. Besides, I
hardly ever heard from her when I was at school. And I know she put a
stop to my coming over to her wedding. I saw the letter she wrote to
Madame Lefevre. A child should be brought up with its parents, if it is
to think them infallible when it grows up.'

'But though it may know that there must be faults,' replied Molly, 'it
ought to cover them over and try to forget their existence.'

'It ought. But don't you see I have grown up outside the pale of duty
and "oughts." Love me as I am, sweet one, for I shall never be better.'




CHAPTER XX

MRS GIBSON'S VISITORS


One day, to Molly's infinite surprise, Mr. Preston was announced as a
caller. Mrs. Gibson and she were sitting together in the drawing-room;
Cynthia was out--gone into the town a-shopping--when the door was
opened, the name given, and in walked the young man. His entrance
seemed to cause more confusion than Molly could well account for. He
came in with the same air of easy assurance with which he had received
them at Ashcombe Manor-house. He looked remarkably handsome in his
riding-dress, and with the open-air exercise he had just had. But Mrs.
Gibson's smooth brows contracted a little at the sight of him, and her
reception of him was much cooler than that which she usually gave to
visitors. Yet there was a degree of agitation in it, which surprised
Molly a little. Mrs. Gibson was at her everlasting worsted-work frame
when Mr. Preston entered the room; but somehow in rising to receive
him, she threw down her basket of crewels, and, declining Molly's offer
to help her, she would pick up all the reels herself, before she asked
her visitor to sit down. He stood there, hat in hand, affecting an
interest in the recovery of the worsted which Molly was sure he did not
feel; for all the time his eyes were glancing round the room, and
taking note of the details in the arrangement.

At length they were seated, and conversation began.

'It is the first time I have been in Hollingford since your marriage,
Mrs. Gibson, or I should certainly have called to pay my respects
sooner.'

'I know you are very busy at Ashcombe. I did not expect you to call. Is
Lord Cumnor at the Towers? I have not heard from her ladyship for more
than a week!'

'No! he seemed still detained at Bath. But I had a letter from him
giving me certain messages for Mr. Sheepshanks. Mr. Gibson is not at
home, I'm afraid?'

'No. He is a great deal out--almost constantly, I may say. I had no
idea that I should see so little of him. A doctor's wife leads a very
solitary life, Mr. Preston!'

'You can hardly call it solitary, I should think, when you have such a
companion as Miss Gibson always at hand,' said he, bowing to Molly.

'Oh, but I call it solitude for a wife when her husband is away. Poor
Mr. Kirkpatrick was never happy unless I always went with him,--all his
walks, all his visits, he liked me to be with him. But somehow Mr.
Gibson feels as if I should be rather in his way.'

'I don't think you could ride pillion behind him on Black Bess, mamma,'
said Molly. 'And unless you could go in that way you could hardly go
with him in his rounds up and down all the rough lanes.'

'Oh! but he might keep a brougham! I've often said so. And then I could
use it for visiting in the evenings. Really it was one reason why I
didn't go to the Hollingford Charity Ball. I couldn't bring myself to
use the dirty fly from the "George." We really must stir papa up
against next winter, Molly; it will never do for you and--'

She pulled herself up suddenly, and looked furtively at Mr. Preston to
see if he had taken any notice of her abruptness. Of course he had, but
he was not going to show it. He turned to Molly, and said,--

'Have you ever been to a public ball yet, Miss Gibson?'

'No!' said Molly.

'It will be a great pleasure to you when the time comes.'

'I'm not sure. I shall like it if I have plenty of partners; but I'm
afraid I shan't know many people.'

'And you suppose that young men haven't their own ways and means of
being introduced to pretty girls?'

It was exactly one of the speeches Molly had disliked him for before;
and delivered, too, in that kind of underbred manner which showed that
it was meant to convey a personal compliment. Molly took great credit
to herself for the unconcerned manner with which she went on with her
tatting exactly as if she had never heard it.

'I only hope I may be one of your partners at the first ball you go to.
Pray, remember my early application for that honour, when you are
overwhelmed with requests for dances.'

'I don't choose to engage myself beforehand,' said Molly, perceiving,
from under her dropped eyelids, that he was leaning forwards and
looking at her as though he was determined to have an answer.

'Young ladies are always very cautious in fact, however modest they may
be in profession,' he replied, addressing himself in a nonchalant
manner to Mrs. Gibson. 'In spite of Miss Gibson's apprehension of not
having many partners she declines the certainty of having one. I
suppose Miss Kirkpatrick will have returned from France before then?'

He said these last words exactly in the same tone as he had used
before; but Molly's instinct told her that he was making an effort to
do so. She looked up. He was playing with his hat, almost as if he did
not care to have any answer to his question. Yet he was listening
acutely, and with a half smile on his face.

Mrs. Gibson reddened a little, and hesitated,--

'Yes; certainly. My daughter will be with us next winter, I believe;
and I daresay she will go out with us.'

'Why can't she say at once that Cynthia is here now?' asked Molly to
herself, yet glad that Mr. Preston's curiosity was baffled.

He still smiled; but this time he looked up at Mrs. Gibson, as he
asked,--'You have good news from her, I hope?'

'Yes; very. By the way, how are our old friends the Robinsons? How
often I think of their kindness to me at Ashcombe! Dear good people, I
wish I could see them again.'

'I will certainly tell them of your kind inquiries. They are very well,
I believe.'

Just at this moment, Molly heard the familiar sound of the click and
opening of the front door. She knew it must be Cynthia; and, conscious
of some mysterious reason which made Mrs. Gibson wish to conceal her
daughter's whereabouts from Mr. Preston, and maliciously desirous to
baffle him, she rose to leave the room, and meet Cynthia on the stairs;
but one of the lost crewels of worsted had entangled itself in her gown
and feet, and before she had freed herself of the encumbrance, Cynthia
had opened the drawing-room door, and stood in it, looking at her
mother, at Molly, at Mr. Preston, but not advancing one step. Her
colour, which had been brilliant the first moment of her entrance,
faded away as she gazed; but her eyes--her beautiful eyes--usually so
soft and grave, seemed to fill with fire, and her brows to contract, as
she took the resolution to come forwards and take her place among the
three, who were all looking at her with different emotions. She moved
calmly and slowly forwards; Mr. Preston went a step or two to meet her,
his hand held out, and the whole expression of his face that of eager
delight.

But she took no notice of the outstretched hand, nor of the chair that
he offered her. She sate down on a little sofa in one of the windows,
and called Molly to her.

'Look at my purchases,' said she. 'This green ribbon was fourteen-pence
a yard, this silk three shillings,' and so she went on, forcing herself
to speak about these trifles as if they were all the world to her, and
she had no attention to throw away on her mother and her mother's
visitor.

Mr. Preston took his cue from her. He, too, talked of the news of the
day, the local gossip--but Molly, who glanced up at him from time to
time, was almost alarmed by the bad expression of suppressed anger,
almost amounting to vindictiveness, which entirely marred his handsome
looks. She did not wish to look again; and tried rather to back up
Cynthia's efforts at maintaining a separate conversation. Yet she could
not help overhearing Mrs. Gibson's strain after increased civility, as
if to make up for Cynthia's rudeness, and, if possible, to deprecate
his anger. She talked perpetually, as though her object were to detain
him; whereas previous to Cynthia's return she had allowed frequent
pauses in the conversation, as though to give him the opportunity to
take his leave.

In the course of the conversation between them the Hamleys came up.
Mrs. Gibson was never unwilling to dwell upon Molly's intimacy with
this county family; and when the latter caught the sound of her own
name, her stepmother was saying,--

'Poor Mrs. Hamley could hardly do without Molly; she quite looked upon
her as a daughter, especially towards the last, when, I am afraid, she
had a good deal of anxiety. Mr. Osborne Hamley--I daresay you have
heard--he did not do so well at college, and they had expected so much
--parents will, you know; but what did it signify? for he had not to
earn his living! I call it a very foolish kind of ambition when a young
man has not to go into a profession.'

'Well, at any rate, the squire must be satisfied now. I saw this
morning's _Times_, with the Cambridge examination lists in it. Isn't
the second son called after his father, Roger?'

'Yes,' said Molly, starting up, and coming nearer.

'He's senior wrangler, that's all,' said Mr. Preston, almost as though
he were vexed with himself for having anything to say that could give
her pleasure. Molly went back to her seat by Cynthia.

'Poor Mrs. Hamley,' said she very softly, as if to herself. Cynthia
took her hand, in sympathy with Molly's sad and tender look, rather
than because she understood all that was passing in her mind, nor did
she quite understand it herself. A death that had come out of time; a
wonder if the dead knew what passed upon the earth they had left--the
brilliant Osborne's failure, Roger's success; the vanity of human
wishes; all these thoughts, and what they suggested, were inextricably
mingled up in her mind. She came to herself in a few minutes. Mr.
Preston was saying all the unpleasant things he could think of about
the Hamleys in a tone of false sympathy.

'The poor old squire--not the wisest of men--has woefully mismanaged
his estate. And Osborne Hamley is too fine a gentleman to understand
the means by which to improve the value of the land--even if he had the
capital. A man who had practical knowledge of agriculture, and some
thousands of ready money, might bring the rental up to eight thousand
or so. Of course, Osborne will try and marry some one with money; the
family is old and well-established, and he mustn't object to commercial
descent, though I daresay the squire will for him; but then the young
fellow himself is not the man for the work. No! the family's going down
fast; and it's pity when these old Saxon houses vanish off the land;
but it is "kismet" with the Hamleys. Even the senior wrangler--if it is
that Roger Hamley--he will have spent all his brains in one effort. You
never hear of a senior wrangler being worth anything afterwards. He'll
be a Fellow of his college, of course--that will be a livelihood for
him at any rate.'

'I believe in senior wranglers,' said Cynthia, her clear high voice
ringing through the room. 'And from all I've heard of Mr. Roger Hamley,
I believe he will keep up the distinction he has earned. And I don't
believe that the house of Hamley is so near extinction in wealth and
fame, and good name.'

'They are fortunate in having Miss Kirkpatrick's good word,' said Mr
Preston, rising to take his leave.

'Dear Molly,' said Cynthia, in a whisper, 'I know nothing about your
friends the Hamleys, except that they are your friends, and what you
have told me about them. But I won't have that man speaking of them
so--and your eyes filling with tears all the time. I'd sooner swear
to their having all the talents and good fortune under the sun.'

The only person of whom Cynthia appeared to be wholesomely afraid was
Mr. Gibson. When he was present she was more careful in speaking, and
showed more deference to her mother. Her evident respect for Mr Gibson,
and desire for his good opinion, made her curb herself before him; and
in this manner she earned his good favour as a lively, sensible girl,
with just so much knowledge of the world as made her a very desirable
companion to Molly. Indeed, she made something of the same kind of
impression on all men. They were first struck with her personal
appearance; and then with her pretty deprecating manner, which appealed
to them much as if she had said, 'You are wise, and I am foolish--have
mercy on my folly.' It was a way she had; it meant nothing really; and
she was hardly conscious of it