He softly removed the cover, and Molly took the basin back with her to her place at the squire’s side. She did not speak, for she did not well know what to say, or how to present this homely want of nature before one so rapt in grief. But she put a spoonful to his lips, and touched them with the savoury food, as if he had been a sick child, and she the nurse; and instinctively he took down the first spoonful of the soup. But in a minute he said, with a sort of cry, and almost overturning the basin Molly held, by his passionate gesture as he pointed to the bed,—
‘He will never eat again—never.’
Then he threw himself across the corpse, and wept in such a terrible manner that Molly trembled lest he also should die—should break his heart there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of her tears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon looking through the unclosed window, with passionless stare. Her father stood by them both before either of them was aware.
‘Go downstairs, Molly,’ said he, gravely; but he stroked her head tenderly as she rose. ‘Go into the dining-room.’ Now she felt the reaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear as she went along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she should meet Osborne, and hear it all explained; how he came to die—what he now felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to the dining-room-the last few steps with a rush of terror—senseless terror of what might be behind her; and there she found supper laid out, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about, decanting some wine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet place, and weep away her over-excitement; but she could hardly do so there. She only felt very much tired, and to care for nothing in this world any more. But vividness of life came back when she found Robinson holding a glass to her lips as she sat in the great leather easy-chair, to which she had gone instinctively as to a place of rest.
‘Drink, miss. It’s good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was to eat a bit. Says he, “My daughter may have to stay here, Mr. Robinson, and she’s young for the work. Persuade her to eat something, or she’ll break down utterly.” Those was his very words.’
Molly did not say anything. She had not energy enough for resistance. She drank and she ate at the old servant’s bidding; and then she asked him to leave her alone, and went back to her easy-chair, and let herself cry, and so ease her heart.
CHAPTER 52
Squire Hamley’s Sorrow
It seemed very long before Mr. Gibson came down. He went and stood with his back to the empty fire-place, and did not speak for a minute or two.
‘He’s gone to bed,’ said he at length. ‘Robinson and I have got him there. But just as I was leaving him he called me back, and asked me to let you stop. I’m sure I don’t know—but one doesn’t like to refuse at such a time.’
‘I wish to stay,’ said Molly.
‘Do you? There’s a good girl. But how will you manage?’
‘Oh, never mind that. I can manage. Papa’—she paused—‘what did Osborne die of?’ She asked the question in a low, awe-stricken voice.
‘Something wrong about the heart. You wouldn’t understand if I told you. I apprehended it for some time; but it’s better not to talk of such things at home. When I saw him on Thursday week, he seemed better than I’ve seen him for a long time. I told Dr. Nicholls so. But one never can calculate in these complaints.’
‘You saw him on Thursday week? Why, you never mentioned it!’ said Molly.
‘No. I don’t talk of my patients at home. Besides, I didn’t want him to consider me as his doctor, but as a friend. Any alarm about his own health would only have hastened the catastrophe.’
‘Then didn’t he know that he was ill—ill of a dangerous complaint, I mean: one that might end as it has done?’
‘No; certainly not. He would only have been watching his symptoms—accelerating matters, in fact.’
‘Oh, papa!’ said Molly, shocked.
‘I’ve no time to go into the question,’ Mr. Gibson continued. ‘And until you know what has to be said on both sides, and in every instance, you are not qualified to judge. We must keep our attention on the duties in hand now. You sleep here for the remainder of the night, which is more than half gone already?’
‘Yes.’
‘Promise me to go to bed just as usual. You may not think it, but most likely you’ll go to sleep at once. People do at your age.’
‘Papa, I think I ought to tell you something. I know a great secret of Osborne’s, which I promised solemnly not to tell; but the last time I saw him I think he must have been afraid of something like this.’ A fit of sobbing came upon her, which her father was afraid would end in hysterics. But suddenly she mastered herself, and looked up into his anxious face, and smiled to reassure him.
‘I could not help it, papa!’
‘No. I know. Go on with what you were saying. You ought to be in bed; but if you’ve a secret on your mind you won’t sleep.’
‘Osborne was married,’ said she, fixing her eyes on her father. ‘That is the secret.’
‘Married! Nonsense. What makes you think so?’
‘He told me. That’s to say, I was in the library—was reading there, some time ago; and Roger came and spoke to Osborne about his wife. Roger did not see me, but Osborne did. They made me promise secrecy. I don’t think I did wrong.’
‘Don’t worry yourself about right or wrong just now; tell me more about it, at once.’
‘I knew no more till six months ago—last November, when you went up to Lady Cumnor. Then he called, and gave me his wife’s address, but still under promise of secrecy; and, excepting those two times, I have never heard any one mention the subject. I think he would have told me more that last time, only Miss Phoebe came in.’
‘Where is this wife of his?’
‘Down in the south; near Winchester, I think. He said she was a Frenchwoman and a Roman Catholic; and I think he said she was a servant,’ added Molly.
‘Phew!’ Her father made a long whistle of dismay.
‘And,’ continued Molly, ‘he spoke of a child. Now you know as much as I do, papa, except the address. I have it written down safe at home.’
Forgetting, apparently, what time of night it was, Mr. Gibson sat down, stretched out his legs before him, put his hands in his pockets, and began to think. Molly sat still without speaking, too tired to do more than wait.
‘Well!’ said he at last, jumping up, ‘nothing can be done to-night; by to-morrow morning, perhaps, I may find out. Poor little pale face!’—taking it between both his hands and kissing it; ‘poor, sweet, little pale face!’ Then he rang the bell, and told Robinson to send some maid-servant to take Miss Gibson to her room.
‘He won’t be up early,’ said he, in parting. ‘The shock has lowered him too much to be energetic. Send breakfast up to him in his own room. I’ll be here again before ten.’
Late as it was before he left, he kept his word.
‘Now, Molly,’ he said, ‘you and I must tell him the truth between us. I don’t know how he will take it; it may comfort him, but I have very little hope: either way, he ought to know it at once.’
‘Robinson says he has gone into the room again, and he is afraid he has locked the door on the inside.’
‘Never mind. I shall ring the bell, and send up Robinson to say that I am here, and wish to speak to him.’
The message returned was, ‘The squire’s kind love, and could not see Mr. Gibson just then.’ Robinson added, ‘It was a long time before he’d answer at all, sir.’
‘Go up again, and tell him I can wait his convenience. Now that’s a lie,’ Mr. Gibson said, turning round to Molly as soon as Robinson had left the room. ‘I ought to be far enough away at twelve; but, if I’m not much mistaken, the innate habits of a gentleman will make him uneasy at the idea of keeping me waiting his pleasure, and will do more to bring him out of that room into this than any entreaties or reasoning.’ Mr. Gibson was growing impatient, though, before they heard the squire’s footstep on the
stairs; he was evidently coming, slowly and unwillingly. He came in almost like one blind, groping along, and taking hold of chair or table for support or guidance till he reached Mr. Gibson. He did not speak when he held the doctor by the hand; he only hung down his head, and kept on a feeble shaking of welcome.
‘I’m brought very low, sir. I suppose it’s God’s doings; but it comes hard upon me. He was my firstborn child.’ He said this almost as if speaking to a stranger, and informing him of facts of which he was ignorant.
‘Here’s Molly,’ said Mr. Gibson, choking a little himself, and pushing her forwards.
‘I beg your pardon; I did not see you at first. My mind is a good deal occupied just now.’ He sat heavily down, and then seemed almost to forget they were there. Molly wondered what was to come next. Suddenly her father spoke—
‘Where’s Roger?’ said he. ‘Is he not likely to be soon at the Cape?’dz He got up and looked at the directions of one or two unopened letters brought by that morning’s post; among them was one in Cynthia’s handwriting. Both Molly and he saw it at the same time. How long it was since yesterday! But the squire took no notice of their proceedings or their looks.
‘You will be glad to have Roger at home as soon as may be, I think, sir. Some months must elapse first; but I’m sure he will return as speedily as possible.’
The squire said something in a very low voice. Both father and daughter strained their ears to hear what it was. They both believed it to be, ‘Roger isn’t Osborne!’ And Mr. Gibson spoke on that belief. He spoke more quietly than Molly had ever heard him do before.
‘No! we know that. I wish that anything that Roger could do, or that I could do, or that any one could do, would comfort you; but it is past human comfort.’
‘I do try to say, God’s will be done, sir,’ said the squire, looking up at Mr. Gibson for the first time, and speaking with more life in his voice; ‘but it’s harder to be resigned than happy people think.’ They were all silent for a while. The squire himself was the first to speak again,—‘He was my first child, sir; my eldest son. And of late years we weren’t‘—his voice broke down, but he controlled himself—‘we weren’t quite as good friends as could be wished; and I’m not sure—not sure that he knew how I loved him.’ And now he cried aloud with an exceeding bitter cry.ea
‘Better so!’ whispered Mr. Gibson to Molly. ‘When he’s a little calmer, don’t be afraid; tell him all you know, exactly as it happened.’
Molly began. Her voice sounded high and unnatural to herself, as if some one else was speaking, but she made her words clear. The squire did not attempt to listen at first, at any rate.
‘One day when I was here, at the time of Mrs. Hamley’s last illness’ (the squire here checked his convulsive breathing), ‘I was in the library, and Osborne came in. He said he had only come in for a book, and that I was not to mind him, so I went on reading. Presently, Roger came along the flagged garden-path just outside the window (which was open). He did not see me in the corner where I was sitting, and said to Osborne, “Here’s a letter from your wife!” ’
Now the squire was all attention; for the first time his tear-swollen eyes met the eyes of another, and he looked at Molly with searching anxiety, as he repeated, ‘His wife! Osborne married!’ Molly went on:
‘Osborne was angry with Roger for speaking out before me, and they made me promise never to mention it to any one; or to allude to it to either of them again. I never named it to papa till last night.’
‘Go on,’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘Tell the squire about Osborne’s call—what you told me!’ Still the squire hung on her lips, listening with open mouth and eyes.
‘Some months ago Osborne called. He was not well, and wanted to see papa. Papa was away, and I was alone. I don’t exactly remember how it came about, but he spoke to me of his wife for the first and only time since the affair in the library’ She looked at her father, as if questioning him as to the desirableness of telling the few further particulars that she knew. The squire’s mouth was dry and stiff, but he tried to say, ‘Tell me all—everything.’ And Molly understood the half-formed words.
‘He said his wife was a good woman, and that he loved her dearly; but she was a French Roman Catholic, and a’—another glance at her father—‘she had been a servant once. That was all; except that I have her address at home. He wrote it down and gave it me.’
‘Well, well!’ moaned the squire. ‘It’s all over now. All over. All past and gone. We’ll not blame him,—no; but I wish he’d ha’ told me; he and I to live together with such a secret in one of us. It’s no wonder to me now—nothing can be a wonder again, for one never can tell what’s in a man’s heart. Married so long! and we sitting together at meals—and living together. Why, I told him everything! Too much, maybe, for I showed him all my passions and ill tempers! Married so long! Oh, Osborne, Osborne, you should have told me!’
‘Yes, he should!’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘But I dare say he knew how much you would dislike such a choice as he had made. But he should have told you!’
‘You know nothing about it, sir,’ said the squire, sharply. ‘You don’t know the terms we were on. Not hearty or confidential. I was cross to him many a time; angry with him for being dull, poor lad—and he with all this weight on his mind. I won’t have people interfering and judging between me and my sons. And Roger too! He could know it all, and keep it from me!’
‘Osborne evidently had bound him down to secrecy, just as he bound me,’ said Molly; ‘Roger could not help himself.’
‘Osborne was such a fellow for persuading people, and winning them over,’ said the squire, dreamily. ‘I remember—but what’s the use of remembering? It’s all over, and Osborne’s dead without opening his heart to me. I could have been tender to him, I could. But he’ll never know it now!’
‘But we can guess what wish he had strongest in his mind at the last, from what we do know of his life,’ said Mr. Gibson.
‘What, sir?’ said the squire, with sharp suspicion of what was coming.
‘His wife must have been his last thought, must she not?’
‘How do I know she was his wife? Do you think he’d go and marry a French baggage of a servant? It may be all a tale trumped up.’
‘Stop, squire. I don’t care to defend my daughter’s truth or accuracy. But, with the dead man’s body lying upstairs—his soul with God—think twice before you say more hasty words, impugning his character; if she was not his wife, what was she?’
‘I beg your pardon. I hardly know what I’m saying. Did I accuse Osborne? Oh, my lad, my lad—thou might have trusted thy old dad! he used to call me his “old dad” when he was a little chap not bigger than this,’ indicating a certain height with his hand. ‘I never meant to say he was not—not what one would wish to think him now-his soul with God, as you say very justly—for I’m sure it is there—’
‘Well! but, squire,’ said Mr. Gibson, trying to check the other’s rambling, ‘to return to his wife—’
‘And the child,’ whispered Molly to her father. Low as the whisper was, it struck on the squire’s ear.
‘What?’ said he, turning round to her suddenly, ‘—child? You never named that? Is there a child? Husband and father, and I never knew! God bless Osborne’s child! I say, God bless it!’ He stood up reverently, and the other two instinctively rose. He closed his hands as if in momentary prayer. Then exhausted he sat down again, and put out his hand to Molly.
‘You’re a good girl. Thank you.—Tell me what I ought to do, and I’ll do it.’ This to Mr. Gibson.
‘I’m almost as much puzzled as you are, squire,’ replied he. ‘I fully believe the whole story; but I think there must be some written confirmation of it, which perhaps ought to be found at once, before we act. Most probably this is to be discovered among Osborne’s papers. Will you look over them at once? Molly shall return with me, and find the address that Osborne gave her, while you are busy—’
‘She’ll come back again?’ said the
squire, eagerly. ‘You—she won’t leave me to myself?’
‘No! She shall come back this evening. I’ll manage to send her somehow. But she has no clothes but the habit she came in, and I want my horse that she rode away upon.’
‘Take the carriage,’ said the squire. ‘Take anything. I’ll give orders. You’ll come back again, too?’
‘No! I’m afraid not, to-day. I’ll come to-morrow, early. Molly shall return this evening, whenever it suits you to send for her.’
‘This afternoon; the carriage shall be at your house at three. I dare not look at Osborne’s—at the papers without one of you with me; and yet I shall never rest till I know more.’
‘I’ll send the desk in by Robinson before I leave. And—can you give me some lunch before I go?’
Little by little he led the squire to eat a morsel or so of food; and so, strengthening him physically, and encouraging him mentally, Mr. Gibson hoped that he could begin his researches during Molly’s absence.
There was something touching in the squire’s wistful looks after Molly as she moved about. A stranger might have imagined her to be his daughter instead of Mr. Gibson’s. The meek, broken-down, considerate ways of the bereaved father never showed themselves more strongly than when he called them back to his chair, out of which he seemed too languid to rise, and said, as if by an after-thought: ‘Give my love to Miss Kirkpatrick; tell her I look upon her as quite one of the family. I shall be glad to see her after—after the funeral. I don’t think I can before.’
‘He knows nothing of Cynthia’s resolution to give up Roger,’ said Mr. Gibson as they rode away. ‘I had a long talk with her last night, but she was as resolute as ever. From what your mamma tells me, there is a third lover in London, whom she’s already refused. I’m thankful that you’ve no lover at all, Molly, unless that abortive attempt of Mr. Coxe’s at an offer, long ago, can be called a lover.’
‘I never heard of it, papa!’ said Molly.
‘Oh, no; I forgot. What a fool I was! Why, don’t you remember the hurry I was in to get you off to Hamley Hall, the very first time you ever went? It was all because I got hold of a desperate love-letter from Coxe, addressed to you.’
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