‘Oh, I am so glad!’ said Molly, rousing up a little. ‘I never thought he would have sent them. He’s better than I believe him. And now it is all over. I am so glad! You quite think he means to give up all claim over you by this, don’t you, Cynthia?’
‘He may claim, but I won’t be claimed; and he has no proofs now. It is the most charming relief; and I owe it all to you, you precious little lady! Now there’s only one thing more to be done; and if you would but do it for me——’ (coaxing and caressing while she asked the question).
‘Oh, Cynthia, don’t ask me; I cannot do any more. You don’t know how sick I go when I think of yesterday, and Mr. Sheepshanks’ look.’
‘It is only a very little thing. I won’t burden your conscience with telling you how I got my letters, but it is not through a person I can trust with money; and I must force him to take back his twenty-three pounds odd shillings. I have put it together at the rate of five per cent., and it’s sealed up. Oh, Molly, I should go off with such a light heart if you would only try to get it safely to him. It’s the last thing; there would be no immediate hurry, you know. You might meet him by chance in a shop, in the street, even at a party—and if you only had it with you in your pocket, there would be nothing so easy.’
Molly was silent. ‘Papa would give it to him. There would be no harm in that. I would tell him he must ask no questions as to what it was.’
‘Very well,’ said Cynthia, ‘have it your own way. I think my way is the best: for if any of this affair comes out——But you’ve done a great deal for me already, and I won’t blame you now for declining to do any more!’
‘I do so dislike having these underhand dealings with him,’ pleaded Molly.
‘Underhand! just simply giving him a letter from me! If I left a note for Miss Browning, should you dislike giving it to her?’
‘You know that’s very different. I could do it openly.’
‘And yet there might be writing in that; and there would not be a line with the money. It would only be the winding-up—the honourable, honest winding-up of an affair which has worried me for years. But do as you like!’
‘Give it me!’ said Molly. ‘I will try.’
‘There’s a darling! You can but try; and if you can’t give it to him in private, without getting yourself into a scrape, why, keep it till I come back again. He shall have it then, whether he will or no!’
Molly looked forward to her tête-à-tête two days with Mrs. Gibson with very different anticipations from those with which she had welcomed the similar intercourse with her father. In the first place, there was no accompanying the travellers to the inn from which the coach started; leave-taking in the market-place was quite out of the bounds of Mrs. Gibson’s sense of propriety. Besides this, it was a gloomy, rainy evening, and candles had to be brought in at an unusually early hour. There would be no break for six hours—no music, no reading; but the two ladies would sit at their worsted work, pattering away at small-talk, with not even the usual break of dinner; for, to suit the requirements of those who were leaving they had already dined early. But Mrs. Gibson really meant to make Molly happy, and tried to be an agreeable companion, only Molly was not well, and was uneasy about many apprehended cares and troubles—and at such hours of indisposition as she was then passing through, apprehensions take the shape of certainties, lying await in our paths. Molly would have given a good deal to have shaken off all these feelings, unusual enough to her; but the very house and furniture, and rain-blurred outer landscape, seemed steeped with unpleasant associations, most of them dating from the last few days.
‘You and I must go on the next journey, I think, my dear,’ said Mrs. Gibson, almost chiming in with Molly’s wish that she could get away from Hollingford into some new air and life, for a week or two. ‘We have been stay-at-homes for a long time, and variety of scene is so desirable for the young! But I think the travellers will be wishing themselves at home by this nice bright fireside. “There’s no place like home,” as the poet says. “ ’Mid pleasures and palaces although I may roam,” it begins, and it’s both very pretty and very true. It’s a great blessing to have such a dear little home as this, is not it, Molly?’
‘Yes,’ said Molly rather drearily, having something of the toujours perdrixdo feeling at the moment. If she could but have gone away with her father, just for two days, how pleasant it would have been.
‘To be sure, love, it would be very nice for you and me to go a little journey all by ourselves. You and I. No one else. If it were not such miserable weather we would have gone off on a little impromptu tour. I’ve been longing for something of the kind for some weeks; but we live such a restricted kind of life here! I declare sometimes I get quite sick of the very sight of the chairs and tables that I know so well. And one misses the others too! It seems so flat and deserted without them!’
‘Yes! We are very forlorn to-night; but I think it’s partly owing to the weather!’
‘Nonsense, dear. I can’t have you giving in to the silly fancy of being affected by weather. Poor dear Mr. Kirkpatrick used to say, “a cheerful heart makes its own sunshine.” He would say it to me, in his pretty way, whenever I was a little low—for I am a complete barometer—you may really judge of the state of the weather by my spirits, I have always been such a sensitive creature! It is well for Cynthia that she does not inherit it; I don’t think her easily affected in any way, do you?’
Molly thought for a minute or two, and then replied—‘No, she is certainly not easily affected—not deeply affected, perhaps I should say.’
‘Many girls, for instance, would have been touched by the admiration she excited—I may say the attentions she received when she was at her uncle’s last summer.’
‘At Mr. Kirkpatrick’s?’
‘Yes. There was Mr. Henderson, that young lawyer; that’s to say, he is studying law, but he has a good private fortune and is likely to have more, so he can only be what I call playing at law. Mr. Henderson was over head and ears in love with her. It is not my fancy, although I grant mothers are partial; both Mr. and Mrs. Kirkpatrick noticed it; and in one of Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s letters, she said that poor Mr. Henderson was going into Switzerland for the long vacation,1 doubtless to try and forget Cynthia; but she really believed he would find it only “dragging at each remove a lengthening chain.” I thought it such a refined quotation, and altogether worded so prettily. You must know aunt Kirkpatrick some day, Molly, my love, she is what I call a woman of a truly elegant mind.’
‘I can’t help thinking it was a pity that Cynthia did not tell them of her engagement.’
‘It is not an engagement, my dear! How often must I tell you that?’
‘But what am I to call it?’
‘I don’t see why you need to call it anything. Indeed, I don’t understand what you mean by “it.” You should always try to express yourself intelligibly. It really is one of the first principles of the English language. In fact, philosophers might ask what is language given us for at all, if it is not that we may make our meaning understood?’
‘But there is something between Cynthia and Roger; they are more to each other than I am to Osborne, for instance. What am I to call it?’
‘You should not couple your name with that of any unmarried young man; it is so difficult to teach you delicacy, child. Perhaps one may say there is a peculiar relation between dear Cynthia and Roger, but it is very difficult to characterize it; I have no doubt that is the reason she shrinks from speaking about it. For, between ourselves, Molly, I really sometimes think it will come to nothing. He is so long away, and privately speaking, Cynthia is not very, very constant. I once knew her very much taken before—that little affair is quite gone by; and she was very civil to Mr. Henderson, in her way; I fancy she inherits it, for when I was a girl I was beset by lovers, and could never find it in my heart to shake them off. You have not heard dear papa say anything of the old squire, or dear Osborne, have you? It seems so long since we have heard or seen any
thing of Osborne. But he must be quite well, I think, or we should have heard of it.’
‘I believe he is quite well. Some one said the other day that they had met him riding—it was Mrs. Goodenough, now I remember—and that he was looking stronger than he had done for years.’
‘Indeed! I am truly glad to hear it. I always was fond of Osborne; and, do you know, I never really took to Roger; I respected him and all that, of course. But to compare him with Mr. Henderson! Mr. Henderson is so handsome and well-bred, and gets all his gloves from Houbigant!’
It was true that they had not seen anything of Osborne Hamley for a long time; but, as it often happens, just after they had been speaking about him he appeared. It was on the day following Mr. Gibson’s departure that Mrs. Gibson had received one of the notes, not so common now as formerly, from the family in town, asking her to go over to the Towers, and find a book, or a manuscript, or something or other that Lady Cumnor wanted with all an invalid’s impatience. It was just the kind of employment she required for an amusement on a gloomy day, and it put her into a good humour immediately. There was a certain confidential importance about it, and it was a variety, and it gave her the pleasant drive in a fly up the noble avenue, and the sense of being the temporary mistress of all the grand rooms once so familiar to her. She asked Molly to accompany her, out of an excess of kindness, but was not at all sorry when Molly excused herself and preferred stopping at home. At eleven o’clock Mrs. Gibson was off, all in her Sunday best (to use the servant’s expression, which she herself would so have contemned), well-dressed in order to impose on the servants at the Towers, for there was no one else to be seen or to be seen by.
‘I shall not be at home until the afternoon, my dear! But I hope you will not find it dull. I don’t think you will, for you are something like me, my love—never less alone than when alone, as one of the great authors has justly expressed it.’
Molly enjoyed the house to herself to the full as much as Mrs. Gibson would enjoy having the Towers to herself. She ventured on having her lunch brought up on a tray into the drawing-room, so that she might eat her sandwiches while she went on with her book. In the middle, Mr. Osborne Hamley was announced. He came in, looking wretchedly ill in spite of purblind Mrs. Goodenough’s report of his healthy appearance.
‘This call is not on you, Molly,’ said he, after the first greetings were over. ‘I was in hopes I might have found your father at home; I thought lunch time was the best hour.’ He had sat down, as if thoroughly glad of the rest, and fallen into a languid stooping position, as if it had become so natural to him that no sense of what were considered good manners sufficed to restrain him now.
‘I hope you did not want to see him professionally?’ said Molly, wondering if she was wise in alluding to his health, yet urged to it by her real anxiety.
‘Yes, I did. I suppose I may help myself to a biscuit and a glass of wine? No, don’t ring for more. I could not eat it if it was here. But I just want a mouthful; this is quite enough, thank you. When will your father be back?’
‘He was summoned up to London. Lady Cumnor is worse. I fancy there is some operation going on; but I don’t know. He will be back to-morrow night.’
‘Very well. Then I must wait. Perhaps I shall be better by that time. I think it’s half fancy; but I should like your father to tell me so. He will laugh at me, I dare say; but I don’t think I shall mind that. He always is severe on fanciful patients, isn’t he, Molly?’
Molly thought that if he saw Osborne’s looks just then he would hardly think him fanciful, or be inclined to be severe. But she only said—‘Papa enjoys a joke at everything, you know. It is a relief after all the sorrow he sees.’
‘Very true. There is a great deal of sorrow in the world. I don’t think it’s a very happy place, after all. So Cynthia is gone to London?’ he added, after a pause. ‘I think I should like to have seen her again. Poor old Roger! He loves her very dearly, Molly,’ he said. Molly hardly knew how to answer him in all this; she was so struck by the change in both voice and manner.
‘Mamma has gone to the Towers,’ she began, at length. ‘Lady Cumnor wanted several things that mamma only can find. She will be sorry to miss you. We were speaking of you only yesterday, and she said how long it was since we had seen you.’
‘I think I’ve grown careless; I’ve often felt so weary and ill that it was all I could do to keep up a brave face before my father.’
‘Why did you not come and see papa?’ said Molly; ‘or write to him?’
‘I cannot tell. I drifted on, sometimes better and sometimes worse, till to-day I mustered up pluck, and came to hear what your father has got to tell me and all for no use, it seems.’
‘I am very sorry. But it is only for two days. He shall go and see you as soon as ever he returns.’
‘He must not alarm my father, remember, Molly,’ said Osborne, lifting himself by the arms of his chair into an upright position and speaking eagerly for the moment. ‘I wish to God Roger was at home!’ said he, falling back into the old posture.
‘I can’t help understanding you,’ said Molly. ‘You think yourself very ill; but isn’t it that you are tired just now?’ She was not sure if she ought to have understood what was passing in his mind; but as she did, she could not help speaking a true reply.
‘Well, sometimes I do think I’m very ill; and then, again, I think it’s only the moping life sets me fancying and exaggerating.’ He was silent for some time. Then, as if he had taken a sudden resolution, he spoke again. ‘You see, there are others depending upon me—upon my health. You haven’t forgotten what you heard that day in the library at home? No, I know you haven’t. I have seen the thought of it in your eyes often since then. I didn’t know you at that time. I think I do now.’
‘Don’t go on talking so fast,’ said Molly. ‘Rest. No one will interrupt us; I will go on with my sewing; when you want to say anything more I shall be listening.’ For she was alarmed at the strange pallor that had come over his face.
‘Thank you.’ After a time he roused himself, and began to speak very quietly, as if on an indifferent matter of fact.
‘The name of my wife is Aimée. Aimée Hamley, of course. She lives at Bishopfield, a village near Winchester. Write it down, but keep it to yourself She is a Frenchwoman, a Roman Catholic, and was a servant. She is a thoroughly good woman. I must not say how dear she is to me. I dare not. I meant once to have told Cynthia, but she didn’t seem quite to consider me as a brother. Perhaps she was shy of a new relation; but you’ll give my love to her, all the same. It is a relief to think that some one else has my secret; and you are like one of us, Molly. I can trust you almost as I can trust Roger. I feel better already, now I feel that some one else knows the whereabouts of my wife and child.’
‘Child!’ said Molly, surprised. But before he could reply, Maria had announced,
‘Miss Phoebe Browning.’
‘Fold up that paper,’ said he, quickly, putting something into her hands, ‘It is only for yourself.’
CHAPTER 46
Hollingford Gossips
My dear Molly, why didn’t you come and dine with us? I said to sister I would come and scold you well. Oh, Mr. Osborne Hamley, is that you?’ and a look of mistaken intelligence at the tête-à-tête she had disturbed came so perceptibly over Miss Phoebe’s face that Molly caught Osborne’s sympathetic eye, and both smiled at the notion.
‘I’m sure I—well! one must sometimes—I see our dinner would have been—’ Then she recovered herself into a connected sentence. ‘We only just heard of Mrs. Gibson’s having a fly from the “George,” because sister sent our Betty to pay for a couple of rabbits Tom Ostler had snared (I hope we shan’t be taken up for poachers, Mr. Osborne—snaring doesn’t require a licence, I believe?), and she heard he was gone off with the fly to the Towers with your dear mamma; for Coxe who drives the fly in general has sprained his ankle. We had just finished dinner, but when Betty said Tom Ostler would not be back until nigh
t, I said, “Why, there’s that poor dear girl left all alone by herself, and her mother such a friend of ours,”—when she was alive, I mean. But I’m sure I’m glad I’m mistaken.’
Osborne said—‘I came to speak to Mr. Gibson, not knowing he had gone to London, and Miss Gibson kindly gave me some of her lunch. I must go now.’
‘Oh dear! I am so sorry,’ fluttered out Miss Phoebe, ‘I disturbed you; but it was with the best intentions. I always was mal-àproposdp from a child.’ But Osborne was gone before she had finished her apologies. Before he left, his eyes met Molly’s with a strange look of yearning farewell that struck her at the time, and that she remembered strongly afterwards. ‘Such a nice suitable thing, and I came in the midst, and spoilt it all. I am sure you’re very kind, my dear, considering—’
‘Considering what, my dear Miss Phoebe? If you are conjecturing a love affair between Mr. Osborne Hamley and me, you never were more mistaken in your life. I think I told you so once before. Please do believe me.’
‘Oh yes! I remember. And somehow sister got it into her head it was Mr. Preston. I recollect.’
‘One guess is just as wrong as the other,’ said Molly, smiling, and trying to look perfectly indifferent, but going extremely red at the mention of Mr. Preston’s name. It was very difficult for her to keep up any conversation, for her heart was full of Osborne—his changed appearance, his melancholy words of foreboding, and his confidences about his wife—French, Catholic, servant. Molly could not help trying to piece these strange facts together by imaginations of her own, and found it very hard work to attend to kind Miss Phoebe’s unceasing patter. She came up to the point, however, when the voice ceased; and could recall, in a mechanical manner, the echo of the last words, which from both Miss Phoebe’s look, and the dying accent that lingered in Molly’s ear, she perceived to be a question. Miss Phoebe was asking her if she would go out with her. She was going to Grinstead’s, the bookseller of Hollingford; who, in addition to his regular business, was the agent for the Hollingford Book Society, received their subscriptions, kept their accounts, ordered their books from London, and, on payment of a small salary, allowed the Society to keep their volumes on shelves in his shop. It was the centre of news, and the club, as it were, of the little town. Everybody who pretended to gentility in the place belonged to it. It was a test of gentility, indeed, rather than of education or a love of literature. No shopkeeper would have thought of offering himself as a member, however great his general intelligence and love of reading; while it boasted on its list of subscribers most of the county families in the neighbourhood, some of whom subscribed to it as a sort of duty belonging to their station, without often using their privilege of reading the books; while there were residents in the little town, such as Mrs. Goodenough, who privately thought reading a great waste of time, that might be much better employed in sewing, and knitting, and pastry-making, but who nevertheless belonged to it as a mark of station, just as these good, motherly women would have thought it a terrible come-down in the world if they had not had a pretty young servant-maid to fetch them home from the tea-parties at night. At any rate, Grinstead’s was a very convenient place for a lounge. In that view of the Book Society every one agreed.
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