It was nearly lunch-time, and the squire always made his appearance at that meal more for the pleasure of seeing his grandson eat his dinner than for any hunger of his own. To-day Molly quickly saw the whole state of the family affairs. She thought that, even had Roger said nothing about them at the Towers, she should have seen that neither the father nor the daughter-in-law had as yet found the clue to each other’s character, although they had now been living for several months in the same house. Aimée seemed to forget her English in her nervousness; and to watch with the jealous eyes of a dissatisfied mother all the proceedings of the squire towards her little boy. They were not of the wisest kind, it must be owned; the child sipped the strong ale with evident relish, and clamoured for everything which he saw the others enjoying. Aimée could hardly attend to Molly for her anxiety as to what her boy was doing and eating; yet she said nothing. Roger took the end of the table opposite to that at which sat grandfather and grandchild. After the boy’s first wants were gratified the squire addressed himself to Molly.
‘Well! and so you can come here a-visiting though you have been among the grand folks. I thought you were going to cut us, Miss Molly, when I heard you was gone to the Towers. Couldn’t find any other place to stay at while father and mother were away, but an earl’s, eh?’
‘They asked me, and I went,’ said Molly; ‘now you’ve asked me, and I’ve come here.’
‘I think you might ha’ known you’d be always welcome here, without waiting for asking. Why, Molly! I look upon you as a kind of daughter more than madam there!’ dropping his voice a little, and perhaps supposing that the child’s babble would drown the signification of his words.
‘Nay, you needn’t look at me so pitifully, she doesn’t follow English readily.’
‘I think she does!’ said Molly, in a low voice—not looking up, however, for fear of catching another glimpse at Aimée’s sudden forlornness of expression and deepened colour. She felt grateful, as if for a personal favour, when she heard Roger speaking to Aimée the moment afterwards in the tender terms of brotherly friendliness; and presently these two were sufficiently engaged in a separate conversation to allow Molly and the squire to go on talking.
‘He’s a sturdy chap, isn’t he?’ said the squire, stroking the little Roger’s curly head. ‘And he can puff four puffs at grandpapa’s pipe without being sick, can’t he?’
‘I s’ant puff any more puffs,’ said the boy, resolutely. ‘Mamma says No. I s‘ant.’
‘That’s just like her!’ said the squire, dropping his voice this time, however. ‘As if it could do the child any harm!’
Molly made a point of turning the conversation from all personal subjects after this, and kept the squire talking about the progress of his drainage during the rest of lunch. He offered to take her to see it; and she acceded to the proposal, thinking, meantime, how little she need have anticipated the being thrown too intimately with Roger, who seemed to devote himself to his sister-in-law. But, in the evening, when Aimée had gone upstairs to put her boy to bed, and the squire was asleep in his easy chair, a sudden flush of memory brought Mrs. Goodenough’s words again to her mind. She was virtually tête-à-tête with Roger, as she had been dozens of times before, but now she could not help assuming an air of constraint; her eyes did not meet his in the old frank way; she took up a book at a pause in the conversation, and left him puzzled and annoyed at the change in her manner. And so it went on during all the time of her visit. If sometimes she forgot, and let herself go into all her old naturalness, by and by she checked herself, and became comparatively cold and reserved. Roger was pained at all this—more pained day after day; more anxious to discover the cause. Aimee, too, silently noticed how different Molly became in Roger’s presence. One day she could not help saying to Molly,—
‘Don’t you like Roger? You would, if you only knew how good he was! He is learned, but that is nothing; it is his goodness that one admires and loves.’
‘He is very good,’ said Molly. ‘I have known him long enough to know that.’
‘But you don’t think him agreeable? He is not like my poor husband, to be sure; and you knew him well, too. Ah! tell me about him once again. When you first knew him? When his mother was alive?’
Molly had grown very fond of Aimée; when the latter was at her ease she had very charming and attaching ways; but feeling uneasy in her position in the squire’s house, she was almost repellent to him; and he, too, put on his worst side to her. Roger was most anxious to bring them together, and had several consultations with Molly as to the best means of accomplishing this end. As long as they talked upon this subject, she spoke to him in the quiet sensible manner which she inherited from her father; but when their discussions on this point were ended, she fell back into her piquant assumption of dignified reserve. It was very difficult to her to maintain this strange manner, especially when once or twice she fancied that it gave him pain; and she would go into her own room and suddenly burst into tears on these occasions, and wish that her visit was ended, and that she was once again in the eventless tranquillity of her own home. Yet presently her fancy changed, and she clung to the swiftly passing hours, as if she would still retain the happiness of each. For, unknown to her, Roger was exerting himself to make her visit pleasant. He was not willing to appear as the instigator of all the little plans for each day, for he felt as if, somehow, he did not hold the same place in her regard as formerly. Still, one day Aimée suggested a nutting expedition—another day they gave little Roger the unheard-of pleasure of tea out-of-doors—there was something else agreeable for a third; and it was Roger who arranged all these simple pleasures—such as he knew Molly would enjoy. But to her he only appeared as the ready forwarder of Aimée’s devices. The week was nearly gone, when one morning the squire found Roger sitting in the old library—with a book before him, it is true, but so deep in thought that he was evidently startled by his father’s unexpected entrance.
‘I thought I should find thee here, my lad! We’ll have the old room done up again before winter; it smells musty enough, and yet I see it’s the place for thee! I want thee to go with me round the five-acre. I’m thinking of laying it down in grass. It’s time for you to be getting into the fresh air, you look quite woe-begone over books, books, books; there never was a thing like ’em for stealing a man’s health out of him!’
So Roger went out with his father, without saying many words till they were at some distance from the house. Then he brought out a sentence with such abruptness that he repaid his father for the start the latter had given him a quarter of an hour before.
‘Father, you remember I’m going out again to the Cape next month! You spoke of doing up the library. If it is for me, I shall be away all the winter.’
‘Can’t you get off it?’ pleaded his father. ‘I thought maybe you’d forgotten all about it.’
‘Not likely!’ said Roger, half smiling.
‘Well, but they might have found another man to finish up your work.’
‘No one can finish it but myself. Besides, an engagement is an engagement. When I wrote to Lord Hollingford to tell him I must come home, I promised to go out again for another six months.’
‘Aye. I know. And perhaps it will put it out of my mind. It will always be hard on me to part from thee. But I dare say it’s best for you.’
Roger’s colour deepened. ‘You are alluding to—to Miss Kirkpatrick. Mrs. Henderson I mean. Father, let me tell you once for all I think that was rather a hasty affair. I’m pretty sure now that we were not suited to each other. I was wretched when I got her letter—at the Cape I mean—but I believe it was for the best.’
‘That’s right. That’s my own boy,’ said the squire, turning round, and shaking hands with his son with vehemence. ‘And now I’ll tell you what I heard the other day, when I was at the magistrates’ meeting. They were all saying she had jilted Preston.’
‘I don’t want to hear anything against her; she may have her faults, but I can ne
ver forget how I once loved her.’
‘Well, well! Perhaps it’s right. I was not so bad about it, was I, Roger? Poor Osborne needn’t have been so secret with me. I asked your Miss Cynthia out here—and her mother and all—my bark is worse than my bite. For, if I had a wish on earth it was to see Osborne married as befitted one of an old stock, and he went and chose out this French girl, of no family at all, only a—’
‘Never mind what she was; look at what she is! I wonder you are not more taken with her humility and sweetness, father!’
‘I don’t even call her pretty,’ said the squire, uneasily, for he dreaded a repetition of the arguments which Roger had often used to make him give Aimée her proper due of affection and position. ‘Now your Miss Cynthia was pretty, I will say that for her, the baggage! and to think that when you two lads flew right in your father’s face, and picked out girls below you in rank and family, you should neither of you have set your fancies on my little Molly there. I dare say I should ha’ been angry enough at the time; but the lassie would ha’ found her way to my heart, as never this French lady, nor t’other one could ha’ done.’
Roger did not answer.
‘I don’t see why you mightn’t put up for her still. I’m humble enough now, and you’re not heir as Osborne was who married a servant-maid. Don’t you think you could turn your thoughts upon Molly Gibson, Roger?’
‘No!’ said Roger, shortly. ‘It’s too late—too late. Don’t let us talk any more of my marrying. Isn’t this the five-acre field?’ And soon he was discussing the relative values of meadow, arable and pasture land with his father, as heartily as if he had never known Molly, or loved Cynthia. But the squire was not in such good spirits, and went but heavily into the discussion. At the end of it he said d propos de bottes,ej—
‘But don’t you think you could like her if you tried, Roger?’
Roger knew perfectly well to what his father was alluding, but for an instant he was on the point of pretending to misunderstand. At length, however, he said, in a low voice,—
‘I shall never try, father. Don’t let us talk any more about it. As I said before, it’s too late.’
The squire was like a child to whom some toy has been refused; from time to time the thought of his disappointment in this matter recurred to his mind; and then he took to blaming Cynthia as the primary cause of Roger’s present indifference to womankind.
It so happened that on Molly’s last morning at the Hall, she received her first letter from Cynthia—Mrs. Henderson. It was just before breakfast-time; Roger was out of doors, Aimee had not as yet come down; Molly was alone in the dining-room, where the table was already laid. She had just finished reading her letter when the squire came in, and she immediately and joyfully told him what the morning had brought to her. But when she saw the squire’s face, she could have bitten her tongue out for having named Cynthia’s name to him. He looked vexed and depressed.
‘I wish I might never hear of her again. I do. She’s been the bane of my Roger, that’s what she has. I haven’t slept half the night, and it’s all her fault. Why, there’s my boy saying now that he has no heart for ever marrying, poor lad! I wish it had been you, Molly, my lads had taken a fancy for. I told Roger so t’other day, and I said that for all you were beneath what I ever thought to see them marry,—well—it’s of no use—it’s too late, now, as he said. Only never let me hear that baggage’s name again, that’s all, and no offence to you either, lassie. I know you love the wench; but if you’ll take an old man’s word, you’re worth a score of her. I wish young men would think so too,’ he muttered as he went to the side-table to carve the ham, while Molly poured out the tea—her heart very hot all the time, and effectually silenced for a space. It was with the greatest difficulty that she could keep tears of mortification from falling. She felt altogether in a wrong position in that house, which had been like a home to her until this last visit. What with Mrs. Goodenough’s remarks, and now this speech of the squire’s, implying—at least to her susceptible imagination—that his father had proposed her as a wife to Roger, and that she had been rejected—she was more glad than she could express, or even think, that she was going home this very morning. Roger came in from his walk while she was in this state of feeling. He saw in an instant that something had distressed Molly; and he longed to have the old friendly right of asking her what it was. But she had effectually kept him at too great a distance during the last few days for him to feel at liberty to speak to her in the old straightforward brotherly way; especially now, when he perceived her efforts to conceal her feelings, and the way in which she drank her tea in feverish haste, and accepted bread only to crumble it about her plate, untouched. It was all that he could do to make talk under these circumstances; but he backed up her efforts as well as he could until Aimée came down, grave and anxious: her boy had not had a good night, and did not seem well; he had fallen into a feverish sleep now, or she could not have left him. Immediately the whole table was in a ferment. The squire pushed away his plate, and could eat no more; Roger was trying to extract a detail or a fact out of Aimée, who began to give way to tears. Molly quickly proposed that the carriage, which had been ordered to take her home at eleven, should come round immediately—she had everything ready packed up, she said,—and bring back her father at once. By leaving directly, she said it was probable they might catch him after he had returned from his morning visits in the town, and before he had set off on his more distant round. Her proposal was agreed to, and she went upstairs to put on her things. She came down all ready into the drawing-room, expecting to find Aimée and the squire there; but during her absence word had been brought to the anxious mother and grandfather that the child had wakened up in a panic, and both had rushed up to their darling. But Roger was in the drawing-room awaiting Molly, with a large bunch of the choicest flowers.
‘Look, Molly!’ said he, as she was on the point of leaving the room again, on finding him there alone. ‘I gathered these flowers for you before breakfast.’ He came to meet her reluctant advance.
‘Thank you!’ said she. ‘You are very kind. I am very much obliged to you.’
‘Then you must do something for me,’ said he, determined not to notice the restraint of her manner, and making the re-arrangement of the flowers which she held as a sort of link between them, so that she could not follow her impulse, and leave the room.
‘Tell me,—honestly as I know you will if you speak at all,—haven’t I done something to vex you since we were so happy at the Towers together?’
His voice was so kind and true—his manner so winning yet wistful, that Molly would have been thankful to tell him all. She believed that he could have helped her more than any one to understand how she ought to behave rightly; he would have disentangled her fancies,—if only he himself had not lain at the very core and centre of all her perplexity and dismay. How could she tell him of Mrs. Goodenough’s words troubling her maiden modesty? How could she ever repeat what his father had said that morning, and assure him that she, no more than he, wished that their old friendliness should be troubled by the thought of a nearer relationship?
‘No, you never vexed me in my whole life, Roger,’ said she, looking straight at him for the first time for many days.
‘I believe you, because you say so. I have no right to ask further, Molly. Will you give me back one of those flowers, as a pledge of what you have said?’
‘Take whichever you like,’ said she, eagerly offering him the whole nosegay to choose from.
‘No; you must choose, and you must give it me.’
Just then the squire came in. Roger would have been glad if Molly had not gone on so eagerly to ransack the bunch for the choicest flower in his father’s presence; but she exclaimed:
‘Oh, please, Mr. Hamley, do you know which is Roger’s favourite flower?’
‘No. A rose, I dare say. The carriage is at the door, and, Molly, my dear, I don’t want to hurry you, but—’
‘I know. Here,
Roger,—here is a rose! I will find papa as soon as ever I get home. How is the little boy?’
‘I’m afraid he’s beginning of some kind of a fever.’
And the squire took her to the carriage, talking all the way of the little boy; Roger following, and hardly heeding what he was doing in the answer he kept asking himself: ‘Too late—or not? Can she ever forget that my first foolish love was given to one so different?’
While she, as the carriage rolled away, kept saying to herself,— ‘We are friends again. I don’t believe he will remember what the dear squire took it into his head to suggest for many days. It is so pleasant to be on the old terms again! and what lovely flowers!’
CHAPTER 60
Roger Hamley’s Confession
Roger had a great deal to think of as he turned away from looking after the carriage as long as it could be seen. The day before, he had believed that Molly had come to view all the symptoms of his growing love for her,—symptoms which he thought had been so patent,—as disgusting inconstancy to the inconstant Cynthia; that she had felt that an attachment which could be so soon transferred to another was not worth having; and that she had desired to mark all this by her changed treatment of him, and so to nip it in the bud. But this morning her old sweet, frank manner had returned—in their last interview, at any rate. He puzzled himself hard to find out what could have distressed her at breakfast-time. He even went so far as to ask Robinson whether Miss Gibson had received any letters that morning; and when he heard that she had had one, he tried to believe that the letter was in some way the cause of her sorrow. So far so good. They were friends again after their unspoken difference; but that was not enough for Roger. He felt every day more and more certain that she, and she alone, could make him happy. He had felt this, and had partly given up all hope, while his father had been urging upon him the very course he most desired to take. No need for ‘trying’ to love her, he said to himself,—that was already done. And yet he was very jealous on her behalf. Was that love worthy of her which had once been given to Cynthia? Was not this affair too much a mocking mimicry of the last—again just on the point of leaving England for a considerable time—if he followed her now to her own home,—in the very drawing-room where he had once offered to Cynthia? And then by a strong resolve he determined on his course. They were friends now, and he kissed the rose that was her pledge of friendship. If he went to Africa, he ran some deadly chances; he knew better what they were now than he had done when he went before. Until his return he would not even attempt to win more of her love than he already had. But once safe home again, no weak fancies as to what might or might not be her answer should prevent his running all chances to gain the woman who was to him the one who excelled all. His was not the poor vanity that thinks more of the possible mortification of a refusal than of the precious jewel of a bride that may be won. Somehow or another, please God to send him back safe, he would put his fate to the touch. And till then he would be patient. He was no longer a boy to rush at the coveted object; he was a man capable of judging and abiding.
Wives and Daughters Page 82
