Roger was talking earnestly to Mrs. Gibson in the bay of the window when Molly entered; Cynthia was standing near, listening, but taking no part in the conversation. Her eyes were downcast, and she did not look up as Molly drew shyly near.

Roger was saying,—'I could never forgive myself if I had accepted a pledge from her. She shall be free until my return; but the hope, the words, her sweet goodness, have made me happy beyond description. Oh, Molly!' suddenly becoming aware of her presence, and turning to her, and taking her hand in both of his,—'I think you have long guessed my secret, have you not? I once thought of speaking to you before I left, and confiding it all to you. But the temptation has been too great, I have told Cynthia how fondly I love her, as far as words can tell; and she says—' then he looked at Cynthia with passionate delight and seemed to forget in that gaze that he had left his sentence to Molly half finished.

Cynthia did not seem inclined to repeat her saying, whatever it was, but her mother spoke for her.

'My dear sweet girl values your love as it ought to be valued, I am sure. And I believe,' looking at Cynthia and Roger with intelligent archness, 'I could tell tales as to the cause of her indisposition in the spring.'

'Mother,' said Cynthia suddenly, 'you know it was no such thing. Pray don't invent stories about me. I have engaged myself to Mr Roger Hamley, and that is enough.'

'Enough! more than enough!' said Roger. 'I will not accept your pledge. I am bound, but you are free. I like to feel bound, it makes me happy and at peace, but with all the chances involved in the next two years, you must not shackle yourself by promises.'

Cynthia did not speak at once; she was evidently revolving something in her own mind. Mrs. Gibson took up the word.

'You are very generous, I am sure. Perhaps it will be better not to mention it.'

'I would much rather have it kept a secret,' said Cynthia, interrupting.

'Certainly, my dear love. That was just what I was going to say. I once knew a young lady who heard of the death of a young man in America, whom she had known pretty well; and she immediately said she had been engaged to him, and even went so far as to put on weeds; and it was a false report, for he came back well and merry, and declared to everybody he had never so much as thought about her. So it was very awkward for her. These things had much better be kept secret until the proper time has come for divulging them.'

Even then and there Cynthia could not resist the temptation of saying,—

'Mamma, I will promise you I won't put on weeds, whatever reports come of Mr. Roger Hamley.'

'Roger, please!' he put in, in a tender whisper.

'And you will all be witnesses that he has professed to think of me, if he is tempted afterwards to deny the fact. But at the same time I wish it to be kept a secret until his return—and I am sure you will all be so kind as to attend to my wish. Please, Roger! Please, Molly! Mamma! I must especially beg it of you!'

Roger would have granted anything when she asked him by that name, and in that tone. He took her hand in silent pledge of his reply. Molly felt as if she could never bring herself to name the affair as a common piece of news. So it was only Mrs. Gibson answered aloud,—

'My dear child! why "especially" to poor me! You know I'm the most trustworthy person alive!'

The little pendule on the chimney-piece struck the half-hour.

'I must go!' said Roger, in dismay. 'I had no idea it was so late. I shall write from Paris. The coach will be at the "George" by this time, and will only stay five minutes. Dearest Cynthia—' he took her hand, and then, as if the temptation was irresistible, he drew her to him and kissed her. 'Only remember you are free!' said he, as he released her and passed on to Mrs. Gibson.

'If I had considered myself free,' said Cynthia, blushing a little, but ready with her repartee to the last,—'if I had thought myself free, do you think I would have allowed that?'

Then Molly's turn came; and the old brotherly tenderness came back into his look, his voice, his bearing.

'Molly! you won't forget me, I know; I shall never forget you, nor your goodness to—her.' His voice began to quiver, and it was best to be gone. Mrs. Gibson was pouring out, unheard and unheeded, words of farewell; Cynthia was rearranging some flowers in a vase on the table, the defects in which had caught her artistic eye, without the consciousness penetrating to her mind. Molly stood, numb to the heart; neither glad nor sorry, nor anything but stunned. She felt the slackened touch of the warm grasping hand; she looked up—for till now her eyes had been downcast, as if there were heavy weights to their lids—and the place was empty where he had been; his quick step was heard on the stair, the front door was opened and shut; and then as quick as lightning Molly ran up to the front attic—the lumber-room, whose window commanded the street down which he must pass. The window- clasp was unused and stiff, Molly tugged at it—unless it was open, and her head put out, that last chance would be gone.

'I must see him again; I must! I must!' she wailed out, as she was pulling. There he was, running hard to catch the London coach; his luggage had been left at the 'George' before he came up to wish the Gibsons good-by. In all his hurry, Molly saw him turn round and shade his eyes from the level rays of the westering sun, and rake the house with his glances—in hopes, she knew, of catching one more glimpse of Cynthia. But apparently he saw no one, not even Molly at the attic casement, for she had drawn back when he had turned, and kept herself in shadow; for she had no right to put herself forward as the one to watch and yearn for farewell signs. None came—another moment—he was out of sight for years.

She shut the window softly, and shivered all over. She left the attic and went to her own room; but she did not begin to take off her out-of- door things till she heard Cynthia's foot on the stairs. Then she hastily went to the toilet-table, and began to untie her bonnet- strings; but they were in a knot, and took time to undo. Cynthia's step stopped at Molly's door; she opened it a little and said,—'May I come in, Molly?'

'Certainly,' said Molly, longing to be able to say 'No' all the time. Molly did not turn to meet her, so Cynthia came up behind her, and putting her two hands round Molly's waist, peeped over her shoulder, putting out her lips to be kissed. Molly could not resist the action— the mute entreaty for a caress. But in the moment before she had caught the reflection of the two faces in the glass; her own, red-eyed, pale, with lips dyed with blackberry juice, her curls tangled, her bonnet pulled awry, her gown torn—and contrasted it with Cynthia's brightness and bloom, and the trim elegance of her dress. 'Oh! it is no wonder!' thought poor Molly, as she turned round, and put her arms round Cynthia, and laid her head for an instant on her shoulder—the weary, aching head that sought a loving pillow in that supreme moment! The next she had raised herself, and taken Cynthia's two hands, and was holding her off a little, the better to read her face.

'Cynthia! you do love him dearly, don't you?'

Cynthia winced a little aside from the penetrating steadiness of those eyes.

'You speak with all the solemnity of an adjuration, Molly!' said she, laughing a little at first to cover her nervousness, and then looking up at Molly. 'Don't you think I have given a proof of it? But you know I've often told you I've not the gift of loving; I said pretty much the same thing to him. I can respect, and I fancy I can admire, and I can like, but I never feel carried off my feet by love for any one, not even for you, little Molly, and I am sure I love you more than—'

'No, don't!' said Molly, putting her hand before Cynthia's mouth, in almost a passion of impatience. 'Don't, don't—I won't hear you—I ought not to have asked you—it makes you tell lies!'

'Why, Molly!' said Cynthia, in her turn seeking to read Molly's face, 'what's the matter with you? One might think you cared for him yourself.'

'I?' said Molly, all the blood rushing to her heart suddenly; then it returned, and she had courage to speak, and she spoke the truth as she believed it, though not the real actual truth.

'I do care for him; I think you have won the love of a prince amongst men. Why, I am proud to remember that he has been to me as a brother, and I love him as a sister, and I love you doubly because he has honoured you with his love.'

'Come, that's not complimentary!' said Cynthia, laughing, but not ill- pleased to hear her lover's praises, and even willing to depreciate him a little in order to hear more. 'He's well enough, I daresay, and a great deal too learned and clever for a stupid girl like me; but even you must acknowledge he is very plain and awkward; and I like pretty things and pretty people.'

'Cynthia, I won't talk to you about him. You know you don't mean what you are saying, and you only say it out of contradiction, because I praise him. He shan't be run down by you, even in joke.'

'Well, then, we won't talk of him at all. I was so surprised when he began to speak—so—' and Cynthia looked very lovely, blushing and dimpling up as she remembered his words and looks. Suddenly she recalled herself to the present time, and her eye caught on the leaf full of blackberries—the broad green leaf, so fresh and crisp when Molly had gathered it an hour or so ago, but now soft and flabby, and dying. Molly saw it, too, and felt a strange kind of sympathetic pity for the poor inanimate leaf.

'Oh! what blackberries! you've gathered them for me, I know!' said Cynthia, sitting down and beginning to feed herself daintily, touching them lightly with the ends of her taper fingers, and dropping each ripe berry into her open mouth. When she had eaten about half she stopped suddenly short.

'How I should like to have gone as far as Paris with him,' she exclaimed. 'I suppose it would not have been proper; but how pleasant it would have been. I remember at Boulogne' (another blackberry) 'how I used to envy the English who were going to Paris; it seemed to me then as if nobody stopped at Boulogne, but dull, stupid school-girls.'

'When will he be there?' asked Molly.

'On Wednesday, he said. I'm to write to him there; at any rate he is going to write to me.'

Molly went about the adjustment of her dress in a quiet, business-like manner, not speaking much; Cynthia, although sitting still, seemed very restless. Oh! how much Molly wished that she would go.

'Perhaps, after all,' said Cynthia, after a pause of apparent meditation, 'we shall never be married.'

'Why do you say that?' said Molly, almost bitterly. 'You have nothing to make you think so. I wonder how you can bear to think you won't, even for a moment.'

'Oh!' said Cynthia; 'you must not go and take me au grand serieux. I daresay I don't mean what I say, but you see everything seems a dream at present. Still, I think the chances are equal—the chances for and against our marriage, I mean. Two years! it's a long time; he may change his mind, or I may; or some one else may turn up, and say I'm engaged to him: what should you think of that, Molly? I'm putting such a gloomy thing as death quite on one side, you see; yet in two years how much may happen.'

'Don't talk so, Cynthia, please don't,' said Molly, piteously. 'One would think you did not care for him, and he cares so much for you!'

'Why, did I say I did not care for him! I was only calculating chances. I am sure I hope nothing will happen to prevent the marriage. Only, you know it may, and I thought I was taking a step in wisdom, in looking forward to all the evils that might befall. I am sure all the wise people I have ever known thought it a virtue to have gloomy prognostics of the future. But you're not in a mood for wisdom or virtue, I see; so I'll go and get ready for dinner, and leave you to your vanities of dress.'

She took Molly's face in both her hands, before Molly was aware of her intention, and kissed it playfully. Then she left Molly to herself.



CHAPTER XXXV

THE MOTHER'S MANOEUVRE

Mr. Gibson was not at home at dinner—detained by some patient, most probably. This was not an unusual occurrence; but it was rather an unusual occurrence for Mrs. Gibson to go down into the dining-room, and sit with him as he ate his deferred meal when he came in an hour or two later. In general, she preferred her easy-chair, or her corner of the sofa, upstairs in the drawing-room, though it was very rarely that she would allow Molly to avail herself of her stepmother's neglected privilege. Molly would fain have gone down and kept her father company every night that he had these solitary meals; but for peace and quietness she gave up her own wishes on the subject.

Mrs. Gibson took a seat by the fire in the dining-room, and patiently waited for the auspicious moment when Mr. Gibson, having satisfied his healthy appetite, turned from the table, and took his place by her side. She got up, and with unaccustomed attention she moved the wine and glasses so that he could help himself without moving from his chair.

'There, now! are you comfortable? for I have a great piece of news to tell you!' said she, when all was arranged.

'I thought there was something on hand,' said he, smiling. 'Now for it!'

'Roger Hamley has been here this afternoon to bid us good-by.'

'Good-by! Is he gone? I did not know he was going so soon!' exclaimed Mr. Gibson.

'Yes: never mind, that's not it,'

'But tell me; has he left this neighbourhood? I wanted to have seen him.'

'Yes, yes. He left love and regret, and all that sort of thing for you. Now let me get on with my story: he found Cynthia alone, proposed to her, and was accepted.'

'Cynthia? Roger proposed to her, and she accepted him?' repeated Mr Gibson, slowly.

'Yes, to be sure. Why not? you speak as if it was something so very surprising.'

'Did I? But I am surprised. He is a very fine young fellow, and I wish Cynthia joy; but do you like it? It will have to be a very long engagement.'

'Perhaps,' said she, in a knowing manner.

'At any rate he will be away for two years,' said Mr. Gibson.

'A great deal may happen in two years,' she replied.

'Yes! he will have to run many risks, and go into many dangers, and will come back no nearer to the power of maintaining a wife than when he went out.'

'I don't know that,' she replied, still in the arch manner of one possessing superior knowledge. 'A little bird did tell me that Osborne's life is not so very secure; and then—what will Roger be? Heir to the estate.'

'Who told you that about Osborne?' said he, facing round upon her, and frightening her with his sudden sternness of voice and manner. It seemed as if absolute fire came out of his long dark sunken eyes. 'Who told you, I say?'

She made a faint rally back into her former playfulness.

'Why? can you deny it? Is it not the truth?'

'I ask you again, Hyacinth, who told you that Osborne Hamley's life is in more danger than mine—or yours?'

'Oh, don't speak in that frightening way. My life is not in danger, I'm sure; nor yours either, love, I hope.'

He gave an impatient movement, and threw a wine-glass off the table. For the moment she felt grateful for the diversion, and busied herself in picking up the fragments: 'bits of glass were so dangerous,' she said. But she was startled by a voice of command, such as she had never yet heard from her husband.

'Never mind the glass. I ask you again, Hyacinth, who told you anything about Osborne Hamley's state of health?'

'I am sure I wish no harm to him, and I daresay he is in very good health, as you say,' whispered she, at last.

'Who told—?' began he again, sterner than ever.

'Well, if you will know, and will make such a fuss about it,' said she, driven to extremity, 'it was you yourself—you or Dr Nicholls, I am sure I forget which.'

'I never spoke to you on the subject, and I don't believe Nicholls did. You had better tell me at once what you are alluding to, for I'm resolved I'll have it out before we leave this room.'

'I wish I'd never married again,' she said, now fairly crying, and looking round the room, as if in vain search for a mouse-hole in which to hide herself. Then, as if the sight of the door into the store-room gave her courage, she turned and faced him.

'You should not talk your medical secrets so loud then, if you don't want people to hear them. I had to go into the store-room that day Dr Nicholls was here; cook wanted a jar of preserve, and stopped me just as I was going out—I am sure it was for no pleasure of mine, for I was sadly afraid of stickying my gloves—it was all that you might have a comfortable dinner.'

She looked as if she was going to cry again, but he gravely motioned her to go on, merely saying,—

'Well! you overheard our conversation, I suppose?'

'Not much,' she answered, eagerly, almost relieved by being this helped out in her forced confession. 'Only a sentence or two.'

'What were they?' he asked.

'Why, you had just been saying something, and Dr Nicholls said: "If he had got aneurism of the aortal his days are numbered."'

'Well. Anything more?'

'Yes; you said, "I hope to God I may be mistaken; but there is a pretty clear indication of symptoms, in my opinion."'

'How do you know we were speaking of Osborne Hamley?' he asked; perhaps in hopes of throwing her off the scent. But as soon as she perceived that he was descending to her level of subterfuge, she took courage, and said in quite a different tone to the cowed one which she had been using,—

'Oh! I know. I heard his name mentioned by you both before I began to listen.'

'Then you own you did listen?'

'Yes,' said she, hesitating a little now.

'And pray how do you come to remember so exactly the name of the disease spoken of?'

'Because I went—now don't be angry, I really can't see any harm in what I did—'

'Then, don't deprecate anger. You went—'

'Into the surgery, and looked it out. Why might not I?'

Mr. Gibson did not answer—did not look at her. His face was very pale, and both forehead and lips were contracted. At length he roused himself, sighed, and said,—

'Well! I suppose as one brews one must bake?'

'I don't understand what you mean,' pouted she.

'Perhaps not,' he replied. 'I suppose that it was what you heard on that occasion that made you change your behaviour to Roger Hamley? I have noticed how much more civil you were to him of late.'

'If you mean that I have ever got to like him as much as Osborne, you are very much mistaken; no, not even though he has offered to Cynthia, and is to be my son-in-law.'

'Let me know the whole affair. You overheard,—I will own that it was Osborne about whom we were speaking, though I shall have something to say about that presently—and then, if I understand you rightly, you changed your behaviour to Roger, and made him more welcome to this house than you had ever done before, regarding him as proximate heir to the Hamley estates?'

'I don't know what you mean by "proximate."'

'Go into the surgery, and look into the dictionary then,' said he, losing his temper for the first time during the conversation.

'I knew,' said she through sobs and tears, 'that Roger had taken a fancy to Cynthia; any one might see that; and as long as Roger was only a younger son, with no profession, and nothing but his Fellowship, I thought it right to discourage him, as any one would who had a grain of common sense in them; for a clumsier, more common, awkward, stupid fellow I never saw—to be called county, I mean.'

'Take care; you'll have to eat your words presently when you come to fancy he'll have Hamley some day.'

'No, I shan't,' said she, not perceiving his exact drift. 'You are vexed now because it is not Molly he's in love with; and I call it very unjust and unfair to my poor fatherless girl. I am sure I have always tried to further Molly's interests as if she was my own daughter.'

Mr. Gibson was too indifferent to this accusation to take any notice of it. He returned to what was of far more importance to him.

'The point I want to be clear about is this. Did you or did you not alter your behaviour to Roger in consequence of what you overheard of my professional conversation with Dr Nicholls? Have you not favoured his suit to Cynthia since then, on the understanding gathered from that conversation that he stood a good chance of inheriting Hamley?'

'I suppose I did,' said she, sulkily. 'And if I did, I can't see any harm in it, that I should be questioned as if I were in a witness-box. He was in love with Cynthia long before that conversation, and she liked him so much. It was not for me to cross the path of true love. I don't see how you would have a mother love her child if she may not turn accidental circumstances to her advantage. Perhaps Cynthia might have died if she had been crossed in love; her poor father was consumptive.'

'Don't you know that all professional conversations are confidential? That it would be the most dishonourable thing possible for me to betray secrets which I learn in the exercise of my profession?'

'Yes, of course, you.'

'Well! and are not you and I one in all these respects? You cannot do a dishonourable act without my being inculpated in the disgrace. If it would be a deep disgrace for me to betray a professional secret, what would it be for me to trade on that knowledge?'

He was trying hard to be patient; but the offence was of that class which galled him insupportably.

'I don't know what you mean by trading. Trading in a daughter's affections is the last thing I should do; and I should have thought you would be rather glad than otherwise to get Cynthia well married, and off your hands.'

Mr. Gibson got up, and walked about the room, his hands in his pockets. Once or twice he began to speak, but he stopped impatiently short without going on.

'I don't know what to say to you,' he said at length. 'You either can't or won't see what I mean. I am glad enough to have Cynthia here. I have given her a true welcome, and I sincerely hope she will find this house as much a home as my own daughter does. But for the future I must look out of my doors, and double-lock the approaches if I am so foolish as to—-However, that's past and gone; and it remains with me to prevent its recurrence as far as I can for the future. Now let us hear the present state of affairs.'

'I don't think I ought to tell you anything about it. It is a secret, just as much as your mysteries are.'

'Very well; you have told me enough for me to act upon, which I most certainly shall do. It was only the other day I promised the squire to let him know if I suspected anything—any love affair, or entanglement, much less an engagement, between either of his sons and our girls.'

'But this is not an engagement; he would not let it be so; if you would only listen to me, I could tell you all. Only I do hope you won't go and tell the squire and everybody. Cynthia did so beg that it might not be known. It is only my unfortunate frankness has led me into this scrape. I never could keep a secret from those whom I love.'

'I must tell the squire. I shall not mention it to any one else. And do you quite think it was consistent with your general frankness to have overheard what you did, and never to have mentioned it to me? I could have told you then that Dr Nicholls' opinion was decidedly opposed to mine, and that he believed and believes that the disturbance about which I consulted him on Osborne's behalf was merely temporary. Dr Nicholls would tell you that Osborne is as likely as any man to live and marry and beget children.'

If there was any skill used by Mr. Gibson so to word this speech as to conceal his own opinion, Mrs. Gibson was not sharp enough to find it out. She was dismayed, and Mr. Gibson enjoyed her dismay; it restored him to something like his usual frame of mind.

'Let us review this misfortune, for I see you consider it as such,' said he.

'No, not quite a misfortune,' said she. 'But certainly if I had known Dr Nicholls' opinion—' she hesitated.

'You see the advantage of always consulting me,' he continued gravely. 'Here is Cynthia engaged—'

'Not engaged, I told you before. He would not allow it to be considered an engagement on her part.'

'Well, entangled in a love affair with a lad of three-and-twenty, with nothing beyond his fellowship and a chance of inheriting an encumbered estate; no profession even, abroad for two years, and I must go and tell his father all about it to-morrow.'

'Oh dear! Pray say that, if he dislikes it, he has only to express his opinion.'

'I don't think you can act without Cynthia in the affair. And if I am not mistaken, Cynthia will have a pretty stout will of her own on the subject.'

'Oh, I don't think she cares for him very much; she is not one to be always falling in love, and she does not take things very deeply to heart. But of course one would not do anything abruptly; two years' absence gives one plenty of time to turn oneself in.'

'But a little while ago we were threatened with consumption and an early death if Cynthia's affections were thwarted.'

'Oh, you dear creature, how you remember all my silly words! It might be, you know. Poor dear Mr. Kirkpatrick was consumptive, and Cynthia may have inherited it, and a great sorrow might bring out the latent seeds. At times I am so fearful. But I dare say it is not probable, for I don't think she takes things very deeply to heart.'

'Then I am quite at liberty to give up the affair, acting as Cynthia's proxy, if the squire disapproves of it?'

Poor Mrs. Gibson was in a strait at this question.

'No!' she said at last. 'We cannot give it up. I am sure Cynthia would not; especially if she thought others were acting for her. And he really is very much in love. I wish he were in Osborne's place.'

'Shall I tell you what I should do?' said Mr. Gibson, in real earnest. 'However it may have been brought about, here are two young people in love with each other. One is as fine a young fellow as ever breathed; the other a very pretty, lively, agreeable girl. The father of the young man must be told, and it is most likely he will bluster and oppose; for there is no doubt it is an imprudent affair as far as money goes. But let them be steady and patient, and a better lot need await no young woman. I only wish it were Molly's good fortune to meet with such another.'

'I will try for her; I will indeed,' said Mrs. Gibson, relieved by his change of tone.

'No, don't. That's one thing I forbid. I'll have no "trying" for Molly.'

'Well, don't be angry, dear! Do you know I was quite afraid you were going to lose your temper at one time!'

'It would have been of no use!' said he, gloomily, getting up as if to close the sitting. His wife was only too glad to make her escape. The conjugal interview had not been satisfactory to either. Mr Gibson had been compelled to face and acknowledge the fact that the wife he had chosen had a very different standard of conduct to that which he had upheld all his life, and had hoped to have seen inculcated in his daughter. He was more irritated than he chose to show; for there was so much of self-reproach in his irritation that he kept the feeling to himself, brooded over it, and allowed a feeling of suspicious dissatisfaction with his wife to grow up in his mind, which extended itself by-and-by to the innocent Cynthia, and caused his manner to both mother and daughter to assume a certain curt severity, which took the latter at any rate with extreme surprise. But on the present occasion he followed his wife up to the drawing-room, and gravely congratulated the astonished Cynthia.

'Has mamma told you?' said she, shooting an indignant glance at her mother. 'It is hardly an engagement; and we all pledged ourselves to keep it a secret, mamma among the rest!'

'But, my dearest Cynthia, you could not expect—you could not have wished me to keep a secret from my husband?' pleaded Mrs. Gibson.

'No, perhaps not. At any rate, sir,' said Cynthia, turning towards him with graceful frankness, 'I am glad you should know it. You have always been a most kind friend to me, and I daresay I should have told you myself, but I did not want it named; if you please, it must still be a secret. In fact, it is hardly an engagement—he' (she blushed and sparkled a little at the euphuism, which implied that there was but one 'he' present in her thoughts at the moment) 'would not allow me to bind myself by any promise until his return!'

Mr. Gibson looked gravely at her, irresponsive to her winning looks, which at the moment reminded him too forcibly of her mother's ways. Then he took her hand, and said, seriously enough,—

'I hope you are worthy of him, Cynthia, for you have indeed drawn a prize. I have never known a truer or warmer heart than Roger's; and I have known him boy and man.'

Molly felt as if she could have thanked her father aloud for this testimony to the value of him who was gone away. But Cynthia pouted a little before she smiled up in his face.

'You are not complimentary, are you, Mr. Gibson?' said she. 'He thinks me worthy, I suppose; and if you have so high an opinion of him, you ought to respect his judgment of me.' If she hoped to provoke a compliment, she was disappointed, for Mr. Gibson let go of her hand in an absent manner, and sate down in an easy chair by the fire, gazing at the wood embers as if hoping to read the future in them. Molly saw Cynthia's eyes fill with tears, and followed her to the other end of the room, where she had gone to seek some working materials.

'Dear Cynthia,' was all she said; but she pressed her hand while trying to assist in the search.

'Oh, Molly, I am so fond of your father; what makes him speak so to me to-night?'

'I don't know,' said Molly; 'perhaps he's tired.'

They were recalled from further conversation by Mr. Gibson. He had roused himself from his reverie, and was now addressing Cynthia. 'I hope you will not consider it a breach of confidence, Cynthia, but I must tell the squire of—of what has taken place to-day between you and his son. I have bound myself by a promise to him. He was afraid—it's as well to tell you the truth—he was afraid' (an emphasis on this last word) 'of something of this kind between his sons and one of you two girls. It was only the other day I assured him there was nothing of the kind on foot; and I told him then I would inform him at once if I saw any symptoms.'

Cynthia looked extremely annoyed.

'It was the one thing I stipulated for—secrecy.'

'But why?' said Mr. Gibson. 'I can understand your not wishing to have it made public under the present circumstances. But the nearest friends on both sides! Surely you can have no objection to that?'

'Yes, I have,' said Cynthia; 'I would not have had any one know if I could have helped it.'

'I am almost certain Roger will tell his father.'

'No, he won't,' said Cynthia; 'I made him promise, and I think he is one to respect a promise'—with a glance at her mother, who, feeling herself in disgrace with both husband and child, was keeping a judicious silence.

'Well, at any rate, the story would come with so much better a grace from him that I shall give him the chance; I won't go over to the Hall till the end of the week; he may have written and told his father before then.'

Cynthia held her tongue for a little while. Then she said, with tearful pettishness,—

'A man's promise is to override a woman's wish then, is it?'

'I don't see any reason why it should not.'

'Will you trust in my reasons when I tell you it will cause me a great deal of distress if it gets known?' She said this in so pleading a voice, that if Mr. Gibson had not been thoroughly displeased and annoyed by his previous conversation with her mother, he must have yielded to her. As it was, he said coldly,—'Telling Roger's father is not making it public. I don't like this exaggerated desire for such secrecy, Cynthia. It seems to me as if something more than was apparent was concealed behind it.'

'Come, Molly,' said Cynthia, suddenly; 'let us sing that duet I've been teaching you; it's better than talking as we are doing.'

It was a little lively French duet. Molly sang it carelessly, with heaviness at her heart; but Cynthia sang it with spirit and apparent merriment; only she broke down in hysterics at last, and flew upstairs to her own room. Molly, heeding nothing else—neither her father nor Mrs. Gibson's words—followed her, and found the door of her bedroom locked, and for all reply to her entreaties to be allowed to come in, she heard Cynthia sobbing and crying.

It was more than a week after the incidents last recorded before Mr Gibson found himself at liberty to call on the squire; and he heartily hoped that long before then, Roger's letter might have arrived from Paris, telling his father the whole story. But he saw at the first glance that the squire had heard nothing unusual to disturb his equanimity. He was looking better than he had done for months past; the light of hope was in his eyes, his face seemed of a healthy ruddy colour, gained partly by his resumption of out-of-door employment in the superintendence of the works, and partly because the happiness he had lately had through Roger's means, caused his blood to flow with regular vigour. He had felt Roger's going away, it is true; but whenever the sorrow of parting with him pressed too heavily upon him, he filled his pipe, and smoked it out over a long, slow, deliberate reperusal of Lord Hollingford's letter, every word of which he knew by heart; but expressions in which he made a pretence to himself of doubting, that he might have an excuse for looking at his son's praises once again. The first greetings over, Mr. Gibson plunged into his subject.

'Any news from Roger yet?'

'Oh, yes; here's his letter,' said the squire, producing lets black leather case, in which Roger's missive had been placed along with the other very heterogeneous contents.

Mr. Gibson read it, hardly seeing the words after he had by one rapid glance assured himself that there was no mention of Cynthia in it.

'Hum! I see he does not name one very important event that has befallen him since he left you,' said Mr. Gibson, seizing on the first words that came. 'I believe I'm committing a breach of confidence on one side, but I'm going to keep the promise I made the last time I was here. I find there is something—something of the kind you apprehended—you understand—between him and my step-daughter, Cynthia Kirkpatrick. He called at our house to wish us good-by, while waiting for the London coach, found her alone, and spoke to her. They don't call it an engagement, but of course it is one.'

'Give me back the letter,' said the squire, in a constrained kind of voice. Then he read it again, as if he had not previously mastered its contents, and as if there might be some sentence or sentences he had overlooked.

'No!' he said at last, with a sigh. 'He tells me nothing about it. Lads may play at confidences with their fathers, but they keep a deal back.' The squire appeared more disappointed at not having heard of this straight from Roger than displeased at the fact itself, Mr. Gibson thought. But he let him take his time.

'He's not the eldest son,' continued the squire, talking as it were to himself. 'But it's not the match I should have planned for him. How came you, sir,' said he, firing round on Mr. Gibson, suddenly—'to say when you were last here, that there was nothing between my sons and either of your girls? Why, this must have been going on all the time!'

'I am afraid it was. But I was as ignorant about it as the babe unborn. I only heard of it on the evening of the day of Roger's departure.'

'And that's a week ago, sir. What's kept you quiet ever since?'

'I thought that Roger would tell you himself.'

'That shows you've no sons. More than half their life is unknown to their fathers. Why, Osborne there, we live together—that's to say, we have our meals together, and we sleep under the same roof—and yet— Well! well! life is as God has made it. You say it's not an engagement yet? But I wonder what I'm doing? Hoping for my lad's disappointment in the folly he's set his heart on—and just when he's been helping me. Is it a folly, or is it not? I ask you, Gibson, for you must know this girl. She has not much money, I suppose?'

'About thirty pounds a year, at my pleasure during her mother's life.'

'Whew! It's well he's not Osborne. They'll have to wait. What family is she of? None of 'em in trade, I reckon, from her being so poor?'

'I believe her father was grandson of a certain Sir Gerald Kirkpatrick. Her mother tells me it is an old baronetcy. I know nothing of such things.'

'That's something. I do know something of such things, as you are pleased to call them. I like honourable blood.'

Mr. Gibson could not help saying, 'But I'm afraid that only one-eighth of Cynthia's blood is honourable; I know nothing further of her relations excepting the fact that her father was a curate.'

'Professional, That's a step above trade at any rate. How old is she?'

'Eighteen or nineteen.'

'Pretty?'

'Yes, I think so; most people do; but it is all a matter of taste. Come, squire, judge for yourself. Ride over and take lunch with us any day you like. I may not be in; but her mother will be there, and you can make acquaintance with your son's future wife.'

This was going too fast, however; presuming too much on the quietness with which the squire had been questioning him. Mr. Hamley drew back within his shell, and spoke in a surly manner as he replied,—

'Roger's "future wife!"—He'll be wiser by the time he comes home. Two years among the black folk will have put more sense in him.'

'Possible, but not probable, I should say,' replied Mr. Gibson. 'Black folk are not remarkable for their powers of reasoning, I believe, so that they have not much chance of altering his opinion by argument, even if they understood each other's language; and certainly if he shares my taste, their peculiarity of complexion will only make him appreciate white skins the more.'

'But you said it was no engagement,' growled the squire. 'If he thinks better of it, you won't keep him to it, will you?'

'If he wishes to break it off, I shall certainly advise Cynthia to be equally willing, that's all I can say. And I see no reason for discussing the affair further at present. I have told you how matters stand because I promised you I would, if I saw anything of this kind going on. But in the present condition of things, we can neither make nor mar; we can only wait.' And he took up his hat to go. But the squire was discontent.

'Don't go, Gibson. Don't take offence at what I've said, though I'm sure I don't know why you should. What is the girl like in herself?'

'I don't know what you mean,' said Mr. Gibson. But he did; only he was vexed, and did not choose to understand.

'Is she—well, is she like your Molly?—sweet-tempered and sensible— with her gloves always mended, and neat about the feet, and ready to do anything one asks her just as if doing it was the very thing she liked best in the world?'

Mr. Gibson's face relaxed now, and he could understand all the squire's broken sentences and unexplained meanings.

'She is much prettier than Molly to begin with, and has very winning ways. She is always well-dressed and smart-looking, and I know she has not much to spend on her clothes, and always does what she is asked to do, and is ready enough with her pretty, lively answers. I don't think I ever saw her out of temper; but then I'm not sure if she takes things keenly to heart, and a certain obtuseness of feeling goes a great way towards a character for good temper, I've observed. Altogether I think Cynthia is one in a hundred.'

The squire meditated a little. 'Your Molly is one in a thousand, to my mind. But then you see she comes of no family at all,—and I don't suppose she'll have a chance of much money.' This he said as if he were thinking aloud, and without reference to Mr. Gibson, but it nettled the latter gentleman, and he replied somewhat impatiently,—

'Well, but as there is no question of Molly in this business, I don't see the use of bringing her name in, and considering either her family or her fortune.'

'No, to be sure not,' said the squire, rousing up. 'My wits had gone far afield, and I'll own I was only thinking what a pity it was she would not do for Osborne. But of course it's out of the question—out of the question.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Gibson, 'and if you will excuse me, squire, I really must go now, and then you'll be at liberty to send your wits afield uninterrupted.' This time he was at the door before the squire called him back. He stood impatiently hitting his top-boots with his riding- whip, waiting for the interminable last words.

'I say, Gibson, we're old friends, and you're a fool if you take anything I say as an offence. Madam your wife and I did not hit it off the only time I ever saw her. I won't say she was silly, but I think one of us was silly, and it was not me. However, we'll pass that over. Suppose you bring her, and this girl Cynthia (which is as outlandish a Christian name as I'd wish to hear), and little Molly out here to lunch some day,—I'm more at my ease in my own house,—and I'm more sure to be civil, too. We need say nothing about Roger,—neither the lass nor me,—and you keep your wife's tongue quiet, if you can. It will only be like a compliment to you on your marriage, you know—and no one must take it for anything more. Mind, no allusion or mention of Roger, and this piece of folly. I shall see the girl then, and I can judge her for myself; for, as you say, that will be the best plan. Osborne will be here, too; and he's always in his element talking to women. I sometimes think he's half a woman himself, he spends so much money and is so unreasonable.'

The squire was pleased with his own speech and his own thought, and smiled a little as he finished speaking. Mr. Gibson was both pleased and amused; and he smiled too, anxious as he was to be gone. The next Thursday was soon fixed upon as the day on which Mr. Gibson was to bring his womankind out to the Hall. He thought that on the whole the interview had gone off a good deal better than he had expected, and felt rather proud of the invitation of which he was the bearer. Therefore Mrs. Gibson's manner of receiving it was an annoyance to him. She meanwhile had been considering herself as an injured woman ever since the evening of the day of Roger's departure. What business had any one had to speak as if the chances of Osborne's life being prolonged were infinitely small, if in fact the matter was uncertain? She liked Osborne extremely, much better than Roger; and would gladly have schemed to secure him for Cynthia, if she had not shrunk from the notion of her daughter's becoming a widow. For if Mrs. Gibson had ever felt anything acutely it was the death of Mr Kirkpatrick, and, amiably callous as she was in most things, she recoiled from exposing her daughter wilfully to the same kind of suffering which she herself had experienced. But if she had only known Dr Nicholls' opinion she would never have favoured Roger's suit; never. And then Mr. Gibson himself; why was he so cold and reserved in his treatment of her since that night of explanation? She had done nothing wrong; yet she was treated as though she were in disgrace. And everything about the house was flat just now. She even missed the little excitement of Roger's visits, and the watching of his attentions to Cynthia. Cynthia too was silent enough; and as for Molly, she was absolutely dull and out of spirits, a state of mind so annoying to Mrs. Gibson just now, that she vented some of her discontent upon the poor girl, from whom she feared neither complaint nor repartee.



CHAPTER XXXVI

DOMESTIC DIPLOMACY

The evening of the day on which Mr. Gibson had been to see the squire, the three women were alone in the drawing-room, for Mr Gibson had had a long round and was not as yet come in. They had had to wait dinner for him; and for some time after his return there was nothing done or said but what related to the necessary business of eating. Mr. Gibson was, perhaps, as well satisfied with his day's work as any of the four; for this visit to the squire had been weighing on his mind ever since he had heard of the state of things between Roger and Cynthia. He did not like the having to go and tell of a love affair so soon after he had declared his belief that no such thing existed; it was a confession of fallibility which is distasteful to most men. If the squire had not been of so unsuspicious and simple a nature, he might have drawn his own conclusions from the apparent concealment of facts, and felt doubtful of Mr. Gibson's perfect honesty in the business; but being what he was, there was no danger of such unjust misapprehension. Still Mr. Gibson knew the hot hasty temper he had to deal with, and had expected more violence of language than he really encountered; and the last arrangement by which Cynthia, her mother, and Molly—who, as Mr. Gibson thought to himself, and smiled at the thought, was sure to be a peacemaker and a sweetener of intercourse—were to go to the Hall and make acquaintance with the squire, appeared like a great success to Mr. Gibson, for achieving which he took not a little credit to himself. Altogether, he was more cheerful and bland than he had been for many days; and when he came up into the drawing-room for a few minutes after dinner, before going out again to see his town-patients, he whistled a little under his breath, as he stood with his back to the fire, looking at Cynthia, and thinking that he had not done her justice when describing her to the squire. Now this soft, almost tuneless whistling was to Mr. Gibson what purring is to a cat. He could no more have done it with an anxious case on his mind, or when he was annoyed by human folly, or when he was hungry, than he could have flown through the air. Molly knew all this by instinct, and was happy without being aware of it, as soon as she heard the low whistle which was no music after all. But Mrs. Gibson did not like this trick of her husband's; it was not refined she thought, not even 'artistic;' if she could have called it by this fine word it would have compensated her for the want of refinement. To-night it was particularly irritating to her nerves; but since her conversation with Mr. Gibson about Cynthia's engagement, she had not felt herself in a sufficiently good position to complain.

Mr. Gibson began,—'Well, Cynthia; I have seen the squire to-day, and made a clean breast of it.'

Cynthia looked up quickly, questioning with her eyes; Molly stopped her netting to listen; no one spoke.

'You're all to go there on Thursday to lunch; he asked you all, and I promised for you.'

Still no reply; natural, perhaps, but very flat.

'You'll be glad of that Cynthia, shan't you?' asked Mr. Gibson. 'It may be a little formidable, but I hope it will be the beginning of a good understanding between you.'

'Thank you!' said she, with an effort. 'But—but won't it make it public? I do so wish not to have it known, or talked about, not till he comes back or close upon the marriage.'

'I don't see how it should make it public,' said Mr. Gibson. 'My wife goes to lunch with my friend, and takes her daughters with her—there's nothing in that, is there?'

'I am not sure that I shall go,' put in Mrs. Gibson. She did not know why she said it, for she fully intended to go all the time; but having said it she was bound to stick to it for a little while; and, with such a husband as hers, the hard necessity was sure to fall upon her of having to find a reason for her saying. There it came, quick and sharp.

'Why not?' said he, turning round upon her.

'Oh, because—because I think he ought to have called on Cynthia first; I've that sort of sensitiveness I can't bear to think of her being slighted because she is poor.'

'Nonsense!' said Mr. Gibson. 'I do assure you, no slight whatever was intended. He does not wish to speak about the engagement to anyone—not even to Osborne—that's your wish, too, is it not, Cynthia? Nor does he intend to mention it to any of you when you go there; but, naturally enough, he wants to make acquaintance with his future daughter-in-law. If he deviated so much from his usual course as to come calling here—'

'I am sure I don't want him to come calling here,' said Mrs. Gibson, interrupting. 'He was not so very agreeable the only time he did come. But I am that sort of a character that I cannot put up with any neglect of persons I love, just because they are not smiled upon by fortune.' She sighed a little ostentatiously as she ended her sentence.

'Well, then, you won't go!' said Mr. Gibson provoked, but not wishing to have a long discussion, especially as he felt his temper going.

'Do you wish it, Cynthia?' said Mrs. Gibson, anxious for an excuse to yield.

But her daughter was quite aware of this motive for the question, and replied quietly,—'Not particularly, mamma. I am quite willing to refuse the invitation.'

'It is already accepted,' said Mr. Gibson, almost ready to vow that he would never again meddle in any affair in which women were concerned, which would effectually shut him out from all love affairs for the future. He had been touched by the squire's relenting, pleased with what he had thought would give others pleasure, and this was the end of it!

'Oh, do go, Cynthia!' said Molly, pleading with her eyes as well as her words. 'Do; I am sure you will like the squire; and it is such a pretty place, and he'll be so much disappointed.'

'I should not like to give up my dignity,' said Cynthia, demurely. 'And you heard what mamma said!' It was very malicious of her. She fully intended to go, and was equally sure that her mother was already planning her dress for the occasion in her own mind. Mr Gibson, however, who, surgeon though he was, had never learnt to anatomize a woman's heart, took it all literally, and was excessively angry both with Cynthia and her mother; so angry that he did not dare to trust himself to speak. He went quickly to the door, intending to leave the room; but his wife's voice arrested him; she said,—

'My dear, do you wish me to go? if you do, I will put my own feelings on one side.'

'Of course I do!' he said, short and stern, and left the room.

'Then I'll go!' said she, in the voice of a victim—those words were meant for him, but he hardly heard them. 'And we'll have a fly from the "George," and get a livery-coat for Thomas, which I've long been wanting, only dear Mr. Gibson did not like it, but on an occasion like this I'm sure he won't mind; and Thomas shall go on the box, and—'

'But, mamma, I've my feelings too,' said Cynthia.

'Nonsense, child! when all is so nicely arranged too.'

So they went on the day appointed. Mr. Gibson was aware of the change of plans, and that they were going after all; but he was so much annoyed by the manner in which his wife had received an invitation which had appeared to him so much kinder than he had expected from his previous knowledge of the squire, and his wishes on the subject of his sons' marriages, that Mrs. Gibson heard neither interest nor curiosity expressed by her husband as to the visit itself, or the reception they met with. Cynthia's indifference as to whether the invitation was accepted or not had displeased Mr. Gibson. He was not up to her ways with her mother, and did not understand how much of this said indifference had been assumed in order to countervent Mrs Gibson's affectation and false sentiment, But for all his annoyance on the subject, he was, in fact, very curious to know how the visit had gone off, and took the first opportunity of being alone with Molly to question her about the lunch of the day before at Hamley Hall.

'And so you went to Hamley yesterday after all?'

'Yes; I thought you would have come. The squire seemed quite to expect you.'

'I thought of going there at first; but I changed my mind like other people. I don't see why women are to have a monopoly of changeableness. Well! how did it go off? Pleasantly, I suppose, for both your mother and Cynthia were in high spirits last night.'

'Yes. The dear old squire was in his best dress and on his best behaviour, and was so prettily attentive to Cynthia, and she looked so lovely, walking about with him, and listening to all his talk about the garden and farm. Mamma was tired, and stopped in-doors, so they got on very well, and saw a great deal of each other.'

'And my little girl trotted behind?'

'Oh, yes. You know I was almost at home, and besides—of course—' Molly went very red, and left the sentence unfinished.

'Do you think she's worthy of him?' asked her father, just as if she had completed her speech.

'Of Roger, papa? oh, who is? But she is very sweet, and very, very charming.'

'Very charming if you will, but somehow I don't quite understand her. Why does she want all this secrecy? Why was she not more eager to go and pay her duty to Roger's father? She took it as coolly as if I'd asked her to go to church!'

'I don't think she did take it coolly; I believe I don't quite understand her either, but I love her dearly all the same.'

'Umph; I like to understand people thoroughly, but I know it's not necessary to women. D'ye really think she's worthy of him?'

'Oh, papa—' said Molly, and then she stopped; she wanted to speak in favour of Cynthia, but somehow she could form no reply that pleased her to this repeated inquiry. He did not seem much to care if he got an answer or not, for he went on with his own thoughts, and the result was that he asked Molly if Cynthia had heard from Roger.

'Yes; on Wednesday morning.'

'Did she show it to you? But of course not. Besides, I read the squire's letter, which told all about him.'

Now Cynthia, rather to Molly's surprise, had told her that she might read the letter if she liked, and Molly had shrunk from availing herself of the permission, for Roger's sake. She thought that he would probably have poured out his heart to the one sole person, and that it was not fair to listen, as it were, to his confidences.

'Was Osborne at home?' asked Mr. Gibson. 'The squire said he did not think he would have come back; but the young fellow is so uncertain—'

'No, he was still from home.' Then Molly blushed all over crimson, for it suddenly struck her that Osborne was probably with his wife—that mysterious wife, of whose existence she was cognizant, but of whom she knew so little, and of whom her father knew nothing. Mr. Gibson noticed the blush with anxiety. What did it mean? It was troublesome enough to find that one of the squire's precious sons had fallen in love within the prohibited ranks; and what would not have to be said and done if anything fresh were to come out between Osborne and Molly? He spoke out at once to relieve himself of this new apprehension.

'Molly, I was taken by surprise by this affair between Cynthia and Roger Hamley—if there's anything more on the tapis let me know at once, honestly and openly. I know it's an awkward question for you to reply to; but I would not ask it unless I had good reasons.' He took her hand as he spoke. She looked up at him with clear, truthful eyes which filled with tears as she spoke. She did not know why the tears came; perhaps it was because she was not so strong as formerly.

'If you mean that you're afraid that Osborne thinks of me as Roger thinks of Cynthia, papa, you are quite mistaken. Osborne and I are friends and nothing more, and never can be anything more. That's all I can tell you.'

'It's quite enough, little one. It's a great relief. I don't want to have my Molly carried off by any young man just yet; I should miss her sadly.' He could not help saying this in the fulness of his heart just then, but he was surprised at the effect these few tender words produced. Molly threw her arms round his neck, and began to sob bitterly, her head lying on his shoulder. 'There, there!' said he, patting her on the back, and leading her to the sofa, 'that will do. I get quite enough of tears in the day, shed for real causes, not to want them at home, where, I hope, they are shed for no cause at all. There's nothing really the matter, is there, my dear?' he continued, holding her a little away from him that he might look in her face. She smiled at him through her tears; and he did not see the look of sadness which returned to her face after he had left her.

'Nothing, dear, dear papa—nothing now. It is such a comfort to have you all to myself—it makes me happy.'

Mr. Gibson knew all implied in these words, and felt that there was no effectual help for the state of things which had arisen from his own act. It was better for them both that they should not speak out more fully. So he kissed her, and said,—

'That's right, dear! I can leave you in comfort now, and indeed I've stayed too long already gossiping. Go out and have a walk—take Cynthia with you, if you like. I must be off. Good-by, little one.'

His commonplace words acted like an astringent on Molly's relaxed feelings. He intended that they should do so; it was the truest kindness to her; but he walked away from her with a sharp pang at his heart, which he stunned into numbness as soon as he could by throwing himself violently into the affairs and cares of others.



CHAPTER XXXVII

A FLUKE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT

The honour and glory of having a lover of her own was soon to fall to Molly's share; though to be sure it was a little deduction to the honour that the man who came with the full intention of proposing to her, ended by making Cynthia an offer. It was Mr. Coxe, who came back to Hollingford to follow out the purpose he had announced to Mr. Gibson nearly two years before, of inducing Molly to become his wife as soon as he should have succeeded to his uncle's estate. He was now a rich, though still a red-haired, young man. He came to the 'George' Inn, bringing his horses and his groom; not that he was going to ride much, but that he thought such outward signs of his riches might help on his suit; and he was so justly modest in his estimation of himself that he believed that he needed all extraneous aid. He piqued himself on his constancy; and indeed, considering that he had been so much restrained by his duty, his affection, and his expectations to his crabbed old uncle, that he had not been able to go much into society, and very rarely indeed into the company of young ladies, such fidelity to Molly was very meritorious, at least in his own eyes. Mr. Gibson too was touched by it, and made it a point of honour to give him a fair field, all the time sincerely hoping that Molly would not be such a goose as to lend a willing ear to a youth who could never remember the difference between apophysis and epiphysis. He thought it as well not to tell his wife more of Mr Coxe's antecedents than that he had been a former pupil; who had relinquished (all that he knew of, understood) the medical profession because an old uncle had left him enough of money to be idle. Mrs. Gibson, who felt that she had somehow lost her place in her husband's favour, took it into her head that she could reinstate herself if she was successful in finding a good match for his daughter Molly. She knew that her husband had forbidden her to try for this end, as distinctly as words could express a meaning; but her own words so seldom did express her meaning, or if they did, she held to her opinions so loosely, that she had no idea but that it was the same with other people. Accordingly she gave Mr. Coxe a very sweet and gracious welcome.

'It is such a pleasure to me to make acquaintance with the former pupils of my husband. He had spoken to me so often of you that I quite feel as if you were one of the family, as indeed I am sure that Mr. Gibson considers you.'

Mr. Coxe felt much flattered, and took the words as a happy omen for his love-affair. 'Is Miss Gibson in?' asked he, blushing violently. 'I knew her formerly, that is to say, I lived in the same house with her, for more than two years, and it would be a great pleasure to—to—'

'Certainly, I am sure she will be so glad to see you. I sent her and Cynthia—you don't know my daughter Cynthia, I think, Mr. Coxe? she and Molly are such great friends—out for a brisk walk this frosty day, but I think they will soon come back.' She went on saying agreeable nothings to the young man, who received her attentions with a certain complacency, but was all the time much more engaged in listening to the well-remembered click at the front door,—the shutting it to again with household care, and the sound of the familiar bounding footstep on the stair. At last they came. Cynthia entered first, bright and blooming, fresh colour in her cheeks and lips, fresh brilliance in her eyes. She looked startled at the sight of a stranger, and for an instant she stopped short at the door, as if taken by surprise. Then in came Molly softly behind her, smiling, happy, dimpled; but not such a glowing beauty as Cynthia.

'Oh, Mr. Coxe, is it you?' said she, going up to him with an outstretched hand, and greeting him with simple friendliness.

'Yes; it seems such a long time since I saw you. You are so much grown—so much—well, I suppose I must not say what,' he replied, speaking hurriedly, and holding her hand all the time rather to her discomfiture. Then Mrs. Gibson introduced her daughter, and the two girls spoke of the enjoyment of their walk. Mr. Coxe marred his cause in that very first interview, if indeed he ever could have had any chance, by his precipitancy in showing his feelings, and Mrs. Gibson helped him to mar it by trying to assist him. Molly lost her open friendliness of manner, and began to shrink away from him in a way which he thought was a very ungrateful return for all his faithfulness to her these two years past, and after all she was not the wonderful beauty his fancy or his love had painted her. That Miss Kirkpatrick was far more beautiful and much easier of access. For Cynthia put on all her pretty airs—her look of intent interest in what any one was saying to her, let the subject be what it would, as if it was the thing she cared the most about in the whole world; her unspoken deference; in short, all the unconscious ways she possessed by instinct of tickling the vanity of men. So while Molly quietly repelled him, Cynthia drew him to her by her soft attractive ways; and his constancy fell before her charms. He was thankful that he, had not gone too far with Molly, and grateful to Mr. Gibson for having prohibited all declarations two years ago. For Cynthia, and Cynthia alone, could make him happy. After a fortnight's time, during which he had entirely veered round in his allegiance, he thought it desirable to speak to Mr. Gibson. He did so with a certain sense of exultation in his own correct behaviour in the affair, but at the same time feeling rather ashamed of the confession of his own changeableness which was naturally involved. Now it had so happened that Mr. Gibson had been unusually little at home during the fortnight that Mr. Coxe had ostensibly lodged at the 'George'—but in reality had spent the greater part of his time at Mr. Gibson's house— so that he had seen very little of his former pupil, and on the whole he had thought him improved, especially after Molly's manner had made her father pretty sure that Mr. Coxe stood no chance in that quarter. But Mr. Gibson was quite ignorant of the attraction which Cynthia had had for the young man. If he had perceived it he would have nipped it in the bud pretty quickly, for he had no notion of any girl, even though only partially engaged to one man, receiving offers from others if a little plain speaking could prevent it. Mr. Coxe had asked for a private interview; they were sitting in the old surgery, now called the consulting-room, but still retaining so much of its former self as to be the last place in which Mr. Coxe could feel himself at ease. He was red up to me very roots of his red Hair, and kept turning his glossy new hat round and round in his fingers, unable to find out the proper way of beginning his sentence, so at length he plunged in, grammar or no grammar.

'Mr. Gibson, I daresay you'll be surprised, I'm sure I am at—at what I want to say; but I think it's the part of an honourable man, as you said yourself, sir, a year or two ago, to—to speak to the father first, and as you, sir, stand in the place of a father to Miss Kirkpatrick, I should like to express my feelings, my hopes, or perhaps I should say wishes, in short—'

'Miss Kirkpatrick?' said Mr. Gibson, a good deal surprised.

'Yes, sir!' continued Mr. Coxe, rushing on now he had got so far. 'I know it may appear inconstant and changeable, but I do assure you, I came here with a heart as faithful to your daughter as ever beat in a man's bosom. I most fully intended to offer myself and all that I had to her acceptance before I left; but really, sir, if you had seen her manner to me every time I endeavoured to press my suit a little—it was more than coy, it was absolutely repellent, there could be no mistaking it,—while Miss Kirkpatrick—' he looked modestly down, and smoothed the nap of his hat, smiling a little while he did so.

'While Miss Kirkpatrick—?' repeated Mr. Gibson, in such a stern voice, that Mr. Coxe, landed esquire as he was now, felt as much discomfited as he used to do when he was an apprentice, and Mr Gibson had spoken to him in a similar manner.

'I was only going to say, sir, that so far as one can judge from manner, and willingness to listen, and apparent pleasure in my visits— altogether I think I may venture to hope that Miss Kirkpatrick is not quite indifferent to me,—and I would wait,—you have no objection, have you, sir, to my speaking to her, I mean?' said Mr. Coxe, a little anxious at the expression on Mr. Gibson's face. 'I do assure you I have not a chance with Miss Gibson,' he continued, not knowing what to say, and fancying that his inconstancy was rankling in Mr. Gibson's mind.

'No! I don't suppose you have. Don't go and fancy it is that which is annoying me. You're mistaken about Miss Kirkpatrick, however. I don't believe she could ever have meant to give you encouragement!'

Mr. Coxe's face grew perceptibly paler. His feelings, if evanescent, were evidently strong.

'I think, sir, if you could have seen her—I don't consider myself vain, and manner is so difficult to describe. At any rate, you can have no objection to my taking my chance, and speaking to her.'

'Of course, if you won't be convinced otherwise, I can have no objection. But if you'll take my advice, you will spare yourself the pain of a refusal. I may, perhaps, be trenching on confidence, but I think I ought to tell you that her affections are otherwise engaged.'

'It cannot be!' said Mr. Coxe. 'Mr. Gibson, there must be some mistake. I have gone as far as I dared in expressing my feelings, and her manner has been most gracious. I don't think she could have misunderstood my meaning. Perhaps she has changed her mind? It is possible that, after consideration, she has learnt to prefer another, is it not?'

'By "another," you mean yourself, I suppose. I can believe in such inconstancy' (he could not help, in his own mind, giving a slight sneer at the instance before him), 'but I should be very sorry to think that Miss Kirkpatrick could be guilty of it.'

'But she may—it is a chance. Will you allow me to see her?'

'Certainly, my poor fellow'—for, intermingled with a little contempt, was a good deal of respect for the simplicity, the unworldliness, the strength of feeling, even though the feeling was evanescent—'I will send her to you directly.'

'Thank you, sir. God bless you for a kind friend!'

Mr. Gibson went upstairs to the drawing-room, where he was pretty sure he should find Cynthia. There she was, as bright and careless as usual, making up a bonnet for her mother, and chattering to Molly as she worked.

'Cynthia, you will oblige me by going down into my consulting-room at once. Mr. Coxe wants to speak to you!'

'Mr. Coxe?' said Cynthia. 'What can he want with me?'

Evidently, she answered her own question as soon as it was asked, for she coloured, and avoided meeting Mr. Gibson's severe, uncompromising look. As soon as she had left the room, Mr. Gibson sate down, and took up a new Edinburgh lying on the table, as an excuse for conversation. Was there anything in the article that made him say, after a minute or two, to Molly, who sate silent and wondering,—

"Molly, you must never trifle with the love of an honest man. You don't know what pain you may give."

Presently Cynthia came back into the drawing-room, looking very much confused. Most likely she would not have returned if she had known that Mr. Gibson was still there; but it was such an unheard-of thing for him to be sitting in that room in the middle of the day, reading or making pretence to read, that she had never thought of his remaining. He looked up at her the moment she came in, so there was nothing for it but putting a bold face on it, and going back to her work.

'Is Mr. Coxe still downstairs?' asked Mr. Gibson.

'No. He is gone. He asked me to give you both his kind regards. I believe he is leaving this afternoon.' Cynthia tried to make her manner as commonplace as possible; but she did not look up, and her voice trembled a little.

Mr. Gibson went on looking at his book for a few minutes; but Cynthia felt that more was coming, and only wished it would come quickly, for the severe silence was very hard to bear. It came at last.

'I trust this will never occur again, Cynthia!' said he, in grave displeasure. 'I should not feel satisfied with the conduct of any girl, however free, who could receive marked attentions from a young man with complacency, and so lead him on to make an offer which she never meant to accept. But what must I think of a young woman in your position, engaged—yet "accepting most graciously," for that was the way Coxe expressed it—the overtures of another man? Do you consider what unnecessary pain you have given him by your thoughtless behaviour? I call it "thoughtless," but it is the mildest epithet I can apply to it. I beg that such a thing may not occur again, or I shall be obliged to characterize it more severely.'

Molly could not imagine what "more severely" could be, for her father's manner appeared to her almost cruel in its sternness. Cynthia coloured up extremely, then went pale, and at length raised her beautiful appealing eyes full of tears to Mr. Gibson. He was touched by that look, but he resolved immediately not to be mollified by any of her physical charms of expression, but to keep to his sober judgment of her conduct.

'Please, Mr. Gibson, hear my side of the story before you speak so hardly to me. I did not mean to—to flirt. I merely meant to make myself agreeable,—I can't help doing that,—and that goose of a Mr Coxe seems to have fancied I meant to give him encouragement.'

'Do you mean that you were not aware that he was falling in love with you?' Mr. Gibson was melting into a readiness to be convinced by that sweet voice, and pleading face.

'Well, I suppose I must speak truly.' Cynthia blushed and smiled—ever so little—but it was a smile, and it hardened Mr Gibson's heart again. 'I did think once or twice that he was becoming a little more complimentary than the occasion required; but I hate throwing cold water on people, and I never thought he could take it into his silly head to fancy himself seriously in love, and to make such a fuss at the last, after only a fortnight's acquaintance.'

'You seem to have been pretty well aware of his silliness (I should rather call it simplicity). Don't you think you should have remembered that it might lead him to exaggerate what you were doing and saying into encouragement?'

'Perhaps. I daresay I'm all wrong, and that he is all right,' said Cynthia, piqued and pouting. 'We used to say in France, that "les absens ont toujours tort," but really it seems as if here—' she stopped. She was unwilling to be impertinent to a man whom she respected and liked. She took up another point of her defence, and rather made matters worse. 'Besides, Roger would not allow me to consider myself as finally engaged to him; I would willingly have done it, but he would not let me.'

'Nonsense. Don't let us go on talking about it, Cynthia! I have said all that I mean to say. I believe that you were only thoughtless, as I told you before. But don't let it happen again.' He left the room at once, to put a stop to the conversation, the continuance of which would serve no useful purpose, and perhaps end by irritating him.

'"Not guilty, but we recommend the prisoner not to do it again." It's pretty much that, isn't it, Molly?' said Cynthia, letting her tears downfall, even while she smiled. 'I do believe your father might make a good woman of me yet, if he would only take the pains, and was not quite so severe. And to think of that stupid little fellow making all this mischief He pretended to take it to heart, as if he had loved me for years instead of only for days. I daresay only for hours if the truth were told.'

'I was afraid he was becoming very fond of you,' said Molly; 'at least it struck me once or twice; but I knew he could not stay long, and I thought it would only make you uncomfortable if I said anything about it. But now I wish I had!'

'It would not have made a bit of difference,' replied Cynthia. 'I knew he liked me, and I like to be liked; it's born in me to try to make every one I come near fond of me; but then they should not carry it too far, for it becomes very troublesome if they do. I shall hate red- haired people for the rest of my life. To think of such a man as that being the cause of your father's displeasure with me!'

Molly had a question at her tongue's end that she longed to put; she knew it was indiscreet, but at last out it came almost against her will.

'Shall you tell Roger about it?'

Cynthia replied, 'I have not thought about it—no! I don't think I shall—there's no need. Perhaps, if we are ever married—'

'Ever married!' said Molly, under her breath. But Cynthia took no notice of the exclamation until she had finished the sentence which it interrupted.

'—-and I can see his face, and know his mood, I may tell it him then; but not in writing, and when he is absent; it might annoy him.'

'I am afraid it would make him uncomfortable,' said Molly, simply. 'And yet it must be so pleasant to be able to tell him everything—all your difficulties and troubles.'

'Yes; only I don't worry him with these things; it is better to write him merry letters, and cheer him up among the black folk. You repeated "Ever married," a little while ago; do you know, Molly, I don't think I ever shall be married to him? I don't know why, but I have a strong presentiment, so it's just as well not to tell him all my secrets, for it would be awkward for him to know them if it never came off!'

Molly dropped her work, and sate silent, looking into the future; at length she said, 'I think it would break his heart, Cynthia!'

'Nonsense. Why, I am sure that Mr. Coxe came here with the intention of falling in love with you—you need not blush so violently. I am sure you saw it as plainly as I did, only you made yourself disagreeable, and I took pity on him, and consoled his wounded vanity.'

'Can you—do you dare to compare Roger Hamley to Mr. Coxe?' asked Molly, indignantly.

'No, no, I don't!' said Cynthia in a moment. 'They are as different as men can be. Don't be so dreadfully serious over everything, Molly. You look as oppressed with sad reproach, as if I had been passing on to you the scolding your father gave me.'

'Because I don't think you value Roger as you ought, Cynthia!' said Molly stoutly, for it required a good deal of courage to force herself to say this, although she could not tell why she shrank so from speaking.

'Yes, I do! It's not in my nature to go into ecstasies, and I don't suppose I shall ever be what people call "in love." But I am glad he loves me, and I like to make him happy, and I think him the best and most agreeable man I know, always excepting your father when he is not angry with me. What can I say more, Molly? would you like me to say I think him handsome?'

'I know most people think him plain, but—'

'Well, I'm of the opinion of most people then, and small blame to them. But I like his face—oh, ten thousand times better than Mr Preston's handsomeness!' For the first time during the conversation Cynthia seemed thoroughly in earnest. Why Mr. Preston was introduced neither she nor Molly knew; it came up and out by a sudden impulse; but a fierce look came into the eyes, and the soft lips contracted themselves as Cynthia named his name. Molly had noticed this look before, always at the mention of this one person.

'Cynthia, what makes you dislike Mr. Preston so much?'

'Don't you? Why do you ask me? and yet, Molly,' said she, suddenly relaxing into depression, not merely in tone and look, but in the droop of her limbs—'Molly, what should you think of me if I married him after all?'

'Married him! Has he ever asked you?'

But Cynthia, instead of replying to this question, went on, uttering her own thoughts,—'More unlikely things have happened. Have you never heard of strong wills mesmerizing weaker ones into submission? One of the girls at Madame Lefevre's went out as a governess to a Russian family, who lived near Moscow. I sometimes think I'll write to her to get me a situation in Russia, just to get out of the daily chance of seeing that man!'

'But sometimes you seem quite intimate with him, and talk to him—'

'How can I help it?' said Cynthia impatiently. Then recovering herself she added: 'We knew him so well at Ashcombe, and he's not a man to be easily thrown off, I can tell you. I must be civil to him; it's not from liking, and he knows it is not, for I've told him so. However, we won't talk about him. I don't know how we came to do it, I'm sure: the mere fact of his existence, and of his being within half a mile of us, is bad enough. Oh! I wish Roger was at home, and rich, and could marry me at once, and carry me away from that man! If I'd thought of it, I really believe I would have taken poor red-haired Mr. Coxe.'

'I don't understand it at all,' said Molly. 'I dislike Mr. Preston, but I should never think of taking such violent steps as you speak of, to get away from the neighbourhood in which he lives.'

'No, because you are a reasonable little darling,' said Cynthia, resuming her usual manner, and coming up to Molly, and kissing her. 'At least you'll acknowledge I'm a good hater!'

'Yes. But still I don't understand it.'

'Oh, never mind! There are old complications with our affairs at Ashcombe. Money matters are at the root of it all. Horrid poverty—do let us talk of something else! Or, better still, let me go and finish my letter to Roger, or I shall be too late for the African mail!'

'Is it not gone? Oh, I ought to have reminded you! It will be too late. Did you not see the notice at the post-office that letters for—ought to be in London on the morning of the 10th instead of the evening. Oh, I am so sorry!'

'So am I, but it can't be helped. It is to be hoped it will be the greater treat when he does get it. I've a far greater weight on my heart, because your father seems so displeased with me. I was fond of him, and now he is making me quite a coward. You see, Molly,' continued she, a little piteously, 'I've never lived with people with such a high standard of conduct before; and I don't quite know how to behave.'

'You must learn,' said Molly, tenderly. 'You'll find Roger quite as strict in his notions of right and wrong.'

'Ah, but he's in love with me!' said Cynthia, with a pretty consciousness of her power. Molly turned away her head, and was silent; it was of no use combating the truth, and she tried rather not to feel it—not to feel, poor girl, that she too had a great weight on her heart, into the cause of which she shrank from examining. That whole winter long she had felt as if her sun was all shrouded over with grey mist, and could no longer shine brightly for her. She wakened up in the morning with a dull sense of something being wrong—the world was out of joint, and, if she were born to set it right, she did not know how to do it. Blind herself as she would, she could not help perceiving that her father was not satisfied with the wife he had chosen. For a long time Molly had been surprised at his apparent contentment; sometimes she had been unselfish enough to be glad that he was satisfied; but still more frequently nature would have its way, and she was almost irritated at what she considered his blindness. Something, however, had changed him now: something that had arisen at the time of Cynthia's engagement; he had become nervously sensitive to his wife's failings, and his whole manner had grown dry and sarcastic, not merely to her, but sometimes to Cynthia,—and even—but this very rarely, to Molly herself. He was not a man to go into passions, or ebullitions of feeling: they would have relieved him, even while degrading him in his own eyes; but he became hard, and occasionally bitter in his speeches and ways. Molly now learnt to long after the vanished blindness in which her father had passed the first year of his marriage; yet there were no outrageous infractions of domestic peace. Some people might say that Mr. Gibson 'accepted the inevitable;' he told himself in more homely phrase 'that it was no use crying over spilt milk;' and he, from principle, avoided all actual dissensions with his wife, preferring to cut short a discussion by a sarcasm, or by leaving the room. Moreover, Mrs Gibson had a very tolerable temper of her own, and her cat-like nature purred and delighted in smooth ways, and pleasant quietness. She had no great facility for understanding sarcasm; it is true it disturbed her, but as she was not quick at deciphering any depth of meaning, and felt it to be unpleasant to think about it, she forgot it as soon as possible. Yet she saw she was often in some kind of disfavour with her husband, and it made her uneasy. She resembled Cynthia in this; she liked to be liked; and she wanted to regain the esteem which she did not perceive she had lost for ever. Molly sometimes took her stepmother's part in secret; she felt as if she herself could never have borne her father's hard speeches so patiently: they would have cut her to the heart, and she must either have demanded an explanation, and probed the sore to the bottom, or sate down despairing and miserable. Instead of which Mrs. Gibson, after her husband had left the room on these occasions, would say in a manner more bewildered than hurt,—

'I think dear papa seems a little put out to-day; we must see that he has a dinner that he likes when he comes home. I have often perceived that everything depends on making a man comfortable in his own house.'

And thus she went on, groping about to find the means of reinstating herself in his good graces—really trying, according to her lights, till Molly was often compelled to pity her in spite of herself, and although she saw that her stepmother was the cause of her father's increased astringency of disposition. For indeed he had got into that kind of exaggerated susceptibility with regard to his wife's faults, which may be best typified by the state of bodily irritation that is produced by the constant recurrence of any particular noise: those who are brought within hearing of it, are apt to be always on the watch for the repetition, if they are once made to notice it, and are in an irritable state of nerves.

So that poor Molly had not passed a cheerful winter, independently of any private sorrows that she might have in her own heart. She did not look well, either; she was gradually falling into low health, rather than bad health. Her heart beat more feebly and slower; the vivifying stimulant of hope—even unacknowledged hope—was gone out of her life. It seemed as if there was not, and never could be in this world, any help for the dumb discordancy between her father and his wife. Day after day, month after month, year after year, would Molly have to sympathize with her father, and pity her stepmother, feeling acutely for both, and certainly more than Mrs. Gibson felt for herself. Molly could not imagine how she had at one time wished for her father's eyes to be opened, and how she could ever have fancied that if they were, he would be able to change things in Mrs Gibson's character. It was all hopeless, and the only attempt at a remedy was to think about it as little as possible. Then Cynthia's ways and manners about Roger gave Molly a great deal of uneasiness. She did not believe that Cynthia cared enough for him; at any rate, not with the sort of love that she herself would have bestowed, if she had been so happy—no, that was not it—if she had been in Cynthia's place. She felt as if she should have gone to him both hands held out, full and brimming over with tenderness, and been grateful for every word of precious confidence bestowed on her. Yet Cynthia received his letters with a kind of carelessness, and read them with a strange indifference, while Molly sate at her feet, so to speak, looking up with eyes as wistful as a dog's waiting for crumbs, and such chance beneficences.

She tried to be patient on these occasions, but at last she must ask,— 'Where is he, Cynthia? What does he say?' By this time Cynthia had put down the letter on the table by her, smiling a little from time to time, as she remembered the loving compliments it contained.

'Where? Oh, I did not look exactly—somewhere in Abyssinia—Huon.' I can't read the word, and it does not much signify, for it would give me no idea.'

'Is he well?' asked greedy Molly.

'Yes, now. He has had a slight touch of fever, he says; but it's all over now, and he hopes he is getting acclimatized.'

'Of fever!—and who took care of him? he would want nursing—and so far from home. Oh, Cynthia!'

'Oh, I don't fancy he had any nursing, poor fellow! One does not expect nursing, and hospitals, and doctors in Abyssinia; but he had plenty of quinine with him, and I suppose that is the best specific. At any rate, he says he is quite well now!'

Molly sate silent for a minute or two.

'What is the date of the letter, Cynthia?'

'I did not look. December the—December the 10th.'

'That's nearly two months ago,' said Molly.

'Yes; but I determined I would not worry myself with useless anxiety, when he went away. If anything did—go wrong, you know,' said Cynthia, using an euphuism' for death, as most people do (it is an ugly word to speak plain out in the midst of life), 'it would be all over before I even heard of his illness, and I could be of no use to him—could I, Molly?'

'No. I daresay it is all very true; only I should think the squire could not take it so easily.'

'I always write him a little note when I hear from Roger, but I don't think I'll name this touch of fever—shall I, Molly?'

'I don't know,' said Molly. 'People say one ought, but I almost wish I had not heard it. Please, does he say anything else that I may hear?'

'Oh, lovers' letters are so silly, and I think this is sillier than usual,' said Cynthia, looking over her letter again. 'Here's a piece you may read, from that line to that,' indicating two places. 'I have not read it myself for it looked dullish—all about Aristotle and Pliny—and I want to get this bonnet-cap made up before we go out to pay our calls.'

Molly took the letter, the thought crossing her mind that he had touched it, had had his hands upon it, in those far-distant desert lands, where he might be lost to sight and to any human knowledge of his fate; even now her pretty brown fingers almost caressed the flimsy paper with their delicacy of touch as she read. She saw references made to books, which, with a little trouble, would be accessible to her here in Hollingford. Perhaps the details and the references would make the letter dull and dry to some people, but not to her, thanks to his former teaching and the interest he had excited in her for his pursuits. But, as he said in apology, what had he to write about in that savage land, but his love, and his researches, and travels? There was no society, no gaiety, no new books to write about, no gossip in Abyssinian wilds.