'I shall be very sorry,' said Lady Harriet. 'I always liked that girl; and I can't bear papa's model land-agent.'

'I daresay it's not true,' said Lady Cumnor, in a very audible aside to Lady Harriet. 'Papa picks up stories one day to contradict them the next.'

'Ah, but this did sound like truth. Sheepshanks said all the old ladies in the town had got hold of it, and were making a great scandal out of it.'

'I don't think it does sound quite a nice story. I wonder what Clare could be doing to allow such goings on,' said Lady Cuxhaven.

'I think it is much more likely that Clare's own daughter—that pretty pawky Miss Kirkpatrick—is the real heroine of this story,' said Lady Harriet. 'She always looks like a heroine of genteel comedy, and those young ladies were capable of a good deal of innocent intriguing, if I remember rightly. Now little Molly Gibson has a certain gaucherie about her which would disqualify her at once from any clandestine proceedings. Besides, "clandestine!" why, the child is truth itself. Papa, are you sure Mr. Sheepshanks said it was Miss Gibson that was exciting Hollingford scandal? Wasn't it Miss Kirkpatrick? The notion of her and Mr. Preston making a match of it does not sound so incongruous; but, if it's my little friend Molly, I'll go to church and forbid the banns.'

'Really, Harriet, I can't think what always makes you take such an interest in all these petty Hollingford affairs.'

'Mamma, it's only tit for tat. They take the most lively interest in all our sayings and doings. If I were going to be married, they would want to know every possible particular,—where we first met, what we first said to each other, what I wore, and whether he offered by letter or in person. I'm sure those good Miss Brownings were wonderfully well- informed as to Mary's methods of managing her nursery, and educating her girls; so it's only a proper return of the compliment to want to know on our side how they are going on. I am quite of papa's faction. I like to hear all the local gossip.'

'Especially when it is flavoured with a spice of scandal and impropriety, as in this case,' said Lady Cumnor, with the momentary bitterness of a convalescent invalid. Lady Harriet coloured with annoyance. But then she rallied her courage, and said with more gravity than before,—

'I am really interested in this story about Molly Gibson, I own. I both like and respect her; and I do not like to hear her name coupled with that of Mr. Preston. I can't help fancying papa has made some mistake.'

'No, my dear. I'm sure I'm repeating what I heard. I'm sorry I said anything about it, if it annoys you or my lady there. Sheepshanks did say Miss Gibson, though, and he went on to say it was a pity the girl had got herself so talked about; for it was the way they had carried on that gave rise to all the chatter. Preston himself was a very fair match for her, and nobody could have objected to it. But I'll try and find a more agreeable piece of news. Old Margery at the lodge is dead; and they don't know where to find some one to teach clear-starching at your school; and Robert Hall made forty pounds last year by his apples.' So they drifted away from Molly and her affairs; only Lady Harriet kept turning what she had heard over in her own mind with interest and wonder.

'I warned her against him the day of her father's wedding. And what a straightforward, out-spoken lassie it was then! I don't believe it; it's only one of old Sheepshanks' stories, half invention and half deafness.'

The next day Lady Harriet rode over to Hollingford, and for the settling of her curiosity she called on the Miss Brownings, and introduced the subject. She would not have spoken about the rumour she had heard to any who were not warm friends of Molly's. If Mr Sheepshanks had chosen to allude to it when she had been riding with her father, she would very soon have silenced him by one of the haughty looks she knew full well how to assume. But she felt as if she must know the truth, and accordingly she began thus abruptly to Miss Browning,—

'What is all this I hear about my little friend Molly Gibson and Mr Preston?'

'Oh, Lady Harriet! have you heard of it? We are so sorry!'

'Sorry for what?'

'I think, begging your ladyship's pardon, we had better not say any more till we know how much you know,' said Miss Browning.

'Nay,' replied Lady Harriet, laughing a little, 'I shan't tell what I know till I am sure you know more. Then we'll make an exchange if you like.'

'I'm afraid it's no laughing Matter for poor Molly,' said Miss Browning, shaking her head. 'People do say such things!'

'But I don't believe them; indeed I don't,' burst in Miss Phoebe, half crying.

'No more will I, then,' said Lady Harriet, taking the good lady's hand.

'It's all very fine, Phoebe, saying you don't believe them, but I should like to know who it was that convinced me, sadly against my will, I am sure.'

'I only told you the facts as Mrs. Goodenough told them me, sister; but I'm sure if you had seen poor patient Molly as I have done, sitting up in a corner of a room, looking at the Beauties of England and Wales till she must have been sick of them, and no one speaking to her; and she as gentle and sweet as ever at the end of the evening, though maybe a bit pale—facts or no facts, I won't believe anything against her.'

So there sate Miss Phoebe, in tearful defiance of facts.

'And, as I said before, I'm quite of your opinion,' said Lady Harriet.

'But how does your ladyship explain away her meetings with Mr Preston in all sorts of unlikely and open-air places?' asked Miss Browning, who, to do her justice, would have been only too glad to join Molly's partisans, if she could have preserved her character for logical deduction at the same time. 'I went so far as to send for her father and tell him all about it. I thought at least he would have horsewhipped Mr. Preston; but he seems to have taken no notice of it.'

'Then we may be quite sure he knows some way of explaining matters that we don't,' said Lady Harriet, decisively. 'After all, there may be a hundred and fifty perfectly natural and justifiable explanations.'

'Mr. Gibson knew of none when I thought it my duty to speak to him,' said Miss Browning.

'Why, suppose that Mr. Preston is engaged to Miss Kirkpatrick, and Molly is confidante and messenger.'

'I don't see that your ladyship's supposition much alters the blame. Why, if he is honourably engaged to Cynthia Kirkpatrick, does he not visit her openly at her home in Mr. Gibson's house? Why does Molly lend herself to clandestine proceedings?'

'One can't account for everything,' said Lady Harriet, a little impatiently, for reason was going hard against her. 'But I choose to have faith in Molly Gibson. I'm sure she's not done anything very wrong. I've a great mind to go and call on her—Mrs. Gibson is confined to her room with this horrid influenza—and take her with me on a round of calls through this little gossipping town,—on Mrs Goodenough, or Badenough, who seems to have been propagating all these stories. But I've not time to-day. I've to meet papa at three, and it's three now. Only remember, Miss Phoebe, it's you and I against the world, in defence of a distressed damsel.'

'Don Quixote and Sancho Panza!' said she to herself as she ran lightly down Miss Browning's old-fashioned staircase.

'Now, I don't think that's pretty of you, Phoebe,' said Miss Browning in some displeasure, as soon as she was alone with her sister. 'First, you convince me against my will, and make me very unhappy; and I have to do unpleasant things, all because you've made me believe that certain statements are true; and then you turn round and cry, and say you don't believe a word of it all, making me out a regular ogre and backbiter. No! it's of no use. I shan't listen to you.' So she left Miss Phoebe in tears, and locked herself up in her own room.

Lady Harriet, meanwhile, was riding homewards by her father's side, apparently listening to all he chose to say, but in reality turning over the probabilities and possibilities that might account for these strange interviews between Molly and Mr. Preston. It was a case of parler de l'ane et l'on en voit les oreilles. At a turn in the road they saw Mr. Preston a little way before them, coming towards them on his good horse, point device, in his riding attire.

The earl, in his thread-bare coat, and on his old brown cob, called out cheerfully,—

'Aha! here's Preston. Good-day to you. I was just wanting to ask you about that slip of pasture-land on the Home Farm. John Brickkill wants to plough it up and crop it. It's not two acres at the best.'

While they were talking over this bit of land, Lady Harriet came to her resolution. As soon as her father had finished, she said,—

'Mr. Preston, perhaps you will allow me to ask you one or two questions to relieve my mind, for I am in some little perplexity at present.'

'Certainly; I shall only be too happy to give you any information in my power.' But the moment after he had made this polite speech, he recollected Molly's speech—that she would refer her case to Lady Harriet. But the letters had been returned, and the affair was now wound up. She had come off conqueror, he the vanquished. Surely she would never have been so ungenerous as to appeal after that?

'There are reports about Miss Gibson and you current among the gossips of Hollingford. Are we to congratulate you on your engagement to that young lady?'

'Ah! by the way, Preston, we ought to have done it before,' interrupted Lord Cumnor, in hasty goodwill. But his daughter said quietly, 'Mr. Preston has not yet told us if the reports are well founded, papa.'

She looked at him with the air of a person expecting an answer, and expecting a truthful answer.

'I am not so fortunate,' replied he, trying to make his horse appear fidgety, without incurring observation.

'Then I may contradict that report?' asked Lady Harriet quietly. 'Or is there any reason for believing that in time it may come true? I ask because such reports, if unfounded, do harm to young ladies.'

'Keep other sweethearts off,' put in Lord Cumnor, looking a good deal pleased at his own discernment. Lady Harriet went on,—

'And I take a great interest in Miss Gibson.'

Mr. Preston saw from her manner that he was 'in for it,' as he expressed it to himself. The question was, how much or how little did she know?

'I have no expectation or hope of ever having a nearer interest in Miss Gibson than I have at present. I shall be glad if this straightforward answer relieves your ladyship from your perplexity.'

He could not help the touch of insolence that accompanied these last words. It was not in the words themselves, nor in the tone in which they were spoken, nor in the look which accompanied them, it was in all; it implied a doubt of Lady Harriet's right to question him as she did; and there was something of defiance in it as well. But this touch of insolence put Lady Harriet's mettle up; and she was not one to check herself, in any course, for the opinion of an inferior.

'Then, sir! are you aware of the injury you may do to a young lady's reputation if you meet her, and detain her in long conversations, when she is walking by herself, unaccompanied by any one? You give rise—you have given rise to reports.'

'My dear Harriet, are not you going too far? You don't know—Mr Preston may have intentions—unacknowledged intentions.'

'No, my lord. I have no intentions with regard to Miss Gibson. She may be a very worthy young lady—I have no doubt she is. Lady Harriet seems determined to push me into such a position that I cannot but acknowledge myself to be—it is not enviable—not pleasant to own—but I am, in fact, a jilted man; jilted by Miss Kirkpatrick, after a tolerably long engagement. My interviews with Miss Gibson were not of the most agreeable kind—as you may conclude when I tell you she was, I believe, the instigator—certainly, she was the agent in this last step of Miss Kirkpatrick's. Is your ladyship's curiosity' (with an emphasis on this last word) 'satisfied with this rather mortifying confession of mine?'

'Harriet, my dear, you've gone too far—we had no right to pry into Mr. Preston's private affairs.'

'No more I had,' said Lady Harriet, with a smile of winning frankness: the first smile she had accorded to Mr. Preston for many a long day; ever since the time, years ago, when, presuming on his handsomeness, he had assumed a tone of gallant familiarity with Lady Harriet, and paid her personal compliments as he would have done to an equal.

'But he will excuse me, I hope,' continued she, still in that gracious manner which made him feel that he now held a much higher place in her esteem than he had had at the beginning of their interview, 'when he learns that the busy tongues of the Hollingford ladies have been speaking of my friend, Miss Gibson, in the most unwarrantable manner; drawing unjustifiable inferences from the facts of that intercourse with Mr. Preston, the nature of which he has just conferred such a real obligation on me by explaining.'

'I think I need hardly request Lady Harriet to consider this explanation of mine as confidential,' said Mr. Preston.

'Of course, of course!' said the earl; 'every one will understand that.' And he rode home, and told his wife and Lady Cuxhaven the whole conversation between Lady Harriet and Mr. Preston; in the strictest confidence, of course. Lady Harriet had to stand a good many strictures on manners, and proper dignity for a few days after this. However, she consoled herself by calling on the Gibsons; and, finding that Mrs. Gibson (who was still an invalid) was asleep at the time, she experienced no difficulty in carrying off the unconscious Molly for a walk, which Lady Harriet so contrived that they twice passed through all the length of the principal street of the town, loitered at Grinstead's for half an hour, and wound up by Lady Harriet's calling on the Miss Brownings, who, to her regret, were not at home.

'Perhaps, it is as well,' said she, after a minute's consideration. 'I'll leave my card, and put your name down underneath it, Molly.'

Molly was a little puzzled by the manner in which she had been taken possession of, like an inanimate chattel, for all the afternoon, and exclaimed,—

'Please, Lady Harriet—I never leave cards; I have not got any, and on the Miss Brownings, of all people; why, I run in and out whenever I like.'

'Never mind, little one. To-day you shall do everything properly, and according to full etiquette.

'And now tell Mrs. Gibson to come out to the Towers for a long day; we will send the carriage for her whenever she will let us know that she is strong enough to come. Indeed, she had better come for a few days; at this time of the year it does not do for an invalid to be out in the evenings, even in a carriage.' So spoke Lady Harriet, standing on the white door-steps at Miss Brownings', and holding Molly's hand while she wished her good-by. 'You'll tell her, dear, that I came partly to see her—but that finding her asleep, I ran off with you, and don't forget about her coming to stay with us for change of air—mamma will like it, I'm sure—and the carriage, and all that. And now good-by, we've done a good day's work! And better than you're aware of,' continued she, still addressing Molly, though the latter was quite out of hearing. 'Hollingford is not the place I take it to be, if it doesn't veer round in Miss Gibson's favour after my to-day's trotting of that child about.'



CHAPTER L

CYNTHIA AT BAY

Mrs. Gibson was slow in recovering her strength after the influenza, and before she was well enough to accept Lady Harriet's invitation to the Towers, Cynthia came home from London. If Molly had thought her manner of departure was scarcely as affectionate and considerate as it might have been,—if such a thought had crossed Molly's fancy for an instant, she was repentant for it as soon as ever Cynthia returned, and the girls met together face to face, with all the old familiar affection, going upstairs to the drawing-room, with their arms round each other's waists, and sitting there together hand in hand. Cynthia's whole manner was more quiet than it had been, when the weight of her unpleasant secret rested on her mind, and made her alternately despondent or flighty.

'After all,' said Cynthia, 'there's a look of home about these rooms which is very pleasant. But I wish I could see you looking stronger, mamma; that's the only unpleasant thing. Molly, why didn't you send for me?'

'I wanted to do,' began Molly.

'But I wouldn't let her,' said Mrs. Gibson. 'You were much better in London than here, for you could have done me no good; and your letters were very agreeable to read; and now Helen is better, and I'm nearly well, and you've come home just at the right time, for everybody is full of the Charity Ball.'

'But we are not going this year, mamma,' said Cynthia decidedly. 'It is on the 25th, isn't it? and I'm sure you'll never be well enough to take us.'

'You really seem determined to make me out worse than I am, child,' said Mrs. Gibson, rather querulously, she being one of those who, when their malady is only trifling, exaggerate it, but when it is really of some consequence, are unwilling to sacrifice any pleasures by acknowledging it. It was well for her in this instance that her husband had wisdom and authority enough to forbid her going to this ball, on which she had set her heart; but the consequence of his prohibition was an increase of domestic plaintiveness and low spirits, which seemed to tell on Cynthia—the bright gay Cynthia herself—and it was often hard work for Molly to keep up the spirits of two other people as well as her own. Ill-health might account for Mrs. Gibson's despondency, but why was Cynthia so silent, not to say so sighing? Molly was puzzled to account for it; and all the more perplexed because from time to time Cynthia kept calling upon her for praise for some unknown and mysterious virtue that she had practised; and Molly was young enough to believe that, after any exercise of virtue, the spirits rose, cheered up by an approving conscience. Such was not the case with Cynthia, however. She sometimes said such things as these, when she had been particularly inert and desponding,—

'Ah, Molly, you must let my goodness lie fallow for a while! It has borne such a wonderful crop this year. I have been so pretty-behaved— if you knew all!' Or, 'Really, Molly, my virtue must come down from the clouds! It was strained to the utmost in London—and I find it is like a kite—after soaring aloft for some time, it suddenly comes down, and gets tangled in all sorts of briars and brambles; which things are an allegory, unless you can bring yourself to believe in my extraordinary goodness while I was away—giving me a sort of right to fall foul of all mamma's briars and brambles now.'

But Molly had had some experience of Cynthia's whim of perpetually hinting at a mystery which she did not mean to reveal in the Mr Preston days, and, although she was occasionally piqued into curiosity, Cynthia's allusions at something more in the background fell in general on rather deaf ears. One day the mystery burst its shell, and came out in the shape of an offer made to Cynthia by Mr Henderson—and refused. Under all the circumstances, Molly could not appreciate the heroic goodness so often alluded to. The revelation of the secret at last took place in this way. Mrs. Gibson breakfasted in bed: she had done so ever since she had had the influenza; and, consequently, her own private letters always went up on her breakfast-tray. One morning she came into the drawing-room earlier than usual, with an open letter in her hand.

'I've had a letter from aunt Kirkpatrick, Cynthia. She sends me my dividends,—your uncle is so busy. But what does she mean by this, Cynthia' (holding out the letter to her, with a certain paragraph indicated by her finger). Cynthia put her netting on one side, and looked at the writing. Suddenly her face turned scarlet, and then became of a deadly white. She looked at Molly, as if to gain courage from the strong serene countenance.

'It means—mamma, I may as well tell you at once—Mr. Henderson offered to me while I was in London, and I refused him.'

'Refused him—and you never told me, but let me hear it by chance! Really, Cynthia, I think you're very unkind. And pray what made you refuse Mr. Henderson? Such a fine young man,—and such a gentleman! Your uncle told me he had a very good private fortune besides.'

'Mamma, do you forget that I have promised to marry Roger Hamley?' said Cynthia quietly.

'No! of course I don't—how can I, with Molly always dinning the word "engagement" into my ears? But really, when one considers all the uncertainties,—and after all it was not a distinct promise,—he seemed almost as if he might have looked forward to something of this sort.'

'Of what sort, mamma?' said Cynthia sharply.

'Why, of a more eligible offer. He must have known you might change your mind, and meet with some one you liked better: so little as you had seen of the world.' Cynthia made an impatient movement, as if to stop her mother.

'I never said I liked him better,—how can you talk so, mamma? I'm going to marry Roger, and there's an end of it. I will not be spoken to about it again.' She got up and left the room.

'Going to marry Roger! That's all very fine. But who is to guarantee his coming back alive! And if he does, what have they to marry upon, I should like to know? I don't wish her to have accepted Mr Henderson, though I am sure she liked him; and true love ought to have its course, and not be thwarted; but she need not have quite finally refused him until—well, until we had seen how matters turn out. Such an invalid as I am too! It has given me quite a palpitation at the heart. I do call it quite unfeeling of Cynthia.'

'Certainly,' began Molly; but then she remembered that her stepmother was far from strong, and unable to bear a protest in favour of the right course without irritation. So she changed her speech into a suggestion of remedies for palpitation; and curbed her impatience to speak out her indignation at the contemplated falsehood to Roger. But when they were alone, and Cynthia began upon the subject, Molly was less merciful. Cynthia said,—

'Well, Molly, and now you know all! I've been longing to tell you—and yet somehow I could not.'

'I suppose it was a repetition of Mr. Coxe,' said Molly gravely. 'You were agreeable,—and he took it for something more.'

'I don't know,' sighed Cynthia. 'I mean I don't know if I was agreeable or not. He was very kind—very pleasant—but I did not expect it all to end as it did. However, it is of no use thinking of it.'

'No!' said Molly, simply; for to her mind the pleasantest and kindest person in the world put in comparison with Roger was as nothing; he stood by himself. Cynthia's next words,—and they did not come very soon,—were on quite a different subject, and spoken in rather a pettish tone. Nor did she allude again in jesting sadness to her late efforts at virtue.

In a little while Mrs. Gibson was able to accept the often-repeated invitation from the Towers to go and stay there for a day or two. Lady Harriet told her that it would be a kindness to Lady Cumnor to come and bear her company in the life of seclusion the latter was still compelled to lead; and Mrs. Gibson was flattered and gratified with a dim unconscious sense of being really wanted, not merely deluding herself into a pleasing fiction. Lady Cumnor was in that state of convalescence common to many invalids. The spring of life had begun again to flow, and with the flow returned the old desires and projects and plans, which had all become mere matters of indifference during the worst part of her illness. But as yet her bodily strength was not sufficient to be an agent to her energetic mind, and the difficulty of driving the ill-matched pair of body and will—one weak and languid, the other strong and stern,—made her ladyship often very irritable. Mrs. Gibson herself was not quite strong enough for a 'souffre- douleur; and the visit to the Towers was not, on the whole, quite so happy a one as she had anticipated. Lady Cuxhaven and Lady Harriet, each aware of their mother's state of health and temper, but only alluding to it as slightly as was absolutely necessary in their conversations with each other, took care not to leave 'Clare' too long with Lady Cumnor; but several times when one or the other went to relieve guard they found Clare in tears, and Lady Cumnor holding forth on some point on which she had been meditating during the silent hours of her illness, and on which she seemed to consider herself born to set the world to rights. Mrs. Gibson was always apt to consider these remarks as addressed with a personal direction at some error of her own, and defended the fault in question with a sense of property in it, whatever it might happen to be. The second and the last day of her stay at the Towers, Lady Harriet came in, and found her mother haranguing in an excited tone of voice, and Clare looking submissive and miserable and oppressed.

'What's the matter, dear mamma? Are not you tiring yourself with talking?'

'No, not at all! I was only speaking of the folly of people dressing above their station. I began by telling Clare of the fashions of my grandmother's days, when every class had a sort of costume of its own,—and servants did not ape tradespeople, nor tradespeople professional men, and so on,—and what must the foolish woman do but begin to justify her own dress, as if I had been accusing her, or even thinking about her at all. Such nonsense! Really, Clare, your husband has spoilt you sadly, if you can't listen to any one without thinking they are alluding to you! People may flatter themselves just as much by thinking that their faults are always present to other people's minds, as if they believe that the world is always contemplating their individual charms and virtues.'

'I was told, Lady Cumnor, that this silk was reduced in price. I bought it at Waterloo House after the season was over,' said Mrs Gibson, touching the very handsome gown she wore in deprecation of Lady Cumnor's angry voice, and blundering on to the very source of irritation.

'Again, Clare! How often must I tell you I had no thought of you or your gowns, or whether they cost much or little; your husband has to pay for them, and it is his concern if you spend more on your dress than you ought to do.'

'It was only five guineas for the whole dress,' pleaded Mrs. Gibson.

'And very pretty it is,' said Lady Harriet, stooping to examine it, and so hoping to soothe the poor aggrieved woman. But Lady Cumnor went on,—

'No! you ought to have known me better by this time. When I think a thing I say it out. I don't beat about the bush. I use straightforward language. I will tell you where I think you have been in fault, Clare, if you like to know.' Like it or not, the plain-speaking was coming now. 'You have spoilt that girl of yours till she does not know her own mind. She has behaved abominably to Mr. Preston; and it is all in consequence of the faults in her education. You have much to answer for.'

'Mamma, mamma!' said Lady Harriet, 'Mr. Preston did not wish it spoken about.' And at the same moment Mrs. Gibson exclaimed, 'Cynthia—Mr. Preston!' in such a tone of surprise, that if Lady Cumnor had been in the habit of observing the revelations made by other people's tones and voices, she would have found out that Mrs Gibson was ignorant of the affair to which she was alluding.

'As for Mr. Preston's wishes, I do not suppose I am bound to regard them when I feel it my duty to reprove error,' said Lady Cumnor loftily to Lady Harriet. 'And, Clare, do you mean to say that you are not aware that your daughter has been engaged to Mr. Preston for some time— years, I believe,—and has at last chosen to break it off,—and has used the Gibson girl—I forget her name,—as a cat's-paw, and made both her and herself the town's talk—the butt for all the gossip of Hollingford? I remember when I was young there was a girl called Jilting Jessy. You'll have to watch over your young lady, or she will get some such name. I speak to you like a friend, Clare, when I tell you it's my opinion that girl of yours will get herself into some more mischief yet before she's safely married. Not that I care one straw for Mr. Preston's feelings. I don't even know if he's got feelings or not; but I know what is becoming in a young woman, and jilting is not. And now you may both go away, and send Bradley to me, for I'm tired, and want to have a little sleep.'

'Indeed, Lady Cumnor—will you believe me?—I do not think Cynthia was ever engaged to Mr. Preston. There was an old flirtation. I was afraid—'

'Ring the bell for Bradley,' said Lady Cumnor, wearily: her eyes closed. Lady Harriet had too much experience of her mother's moods not to lead Mrs. Gibson away almost by main force, she protesting all the while that she did not think there was any truth in the statement, though it was dear Lady Cumnor that said it.

Once in her own room, Lady Harriet said, 'Now, Clare, I'll tell you all about it; and I think you'll have to believe it, for it was Mr Preston himself who told me. I heard of a great commotion in Hollingford about Mr. Preston; and I met him riding out, and asked him what it was all about; he did not want to speak about it, evidently. No man does, I suppose, when he's been jilted; and he made both papa and me promise not to tell; but papa did—and that's what mamma has for a foundation; you see, a really good one.'

'But Cynthia is engaged to another man—she really is. And another—a very good match indeed—has just been offering to her in London. Mr. Preston is always at the root of mischief.'

'Nay! I do think in this case it must be that pretty Miss Cynthia of yours who has drawn on one man to be engaged to her,—not to say two,— and another to make her an offer. I can't endure Mr. Preston, but I think it's rather hard to accuse him of having called up the rivals, who are, I suppose, the occasion of his being jilted.'

'I don't know; I always feel as if he owed me a grudge, and men have so many ways of being spiteful. You must acknowledge that if he had not met you I should not have had dear Lady Cumnor so angry with me.'

'She only wanted to warn you about Cynthia. Mamma has always been very particular about her own daughters. She has been very severe on the least approach to flirting, and Mary will be like her!'

'But Cynthia will flirt, and I can't help it. She is not noisy, or giggling; she is always a lady—that everybody must own. But she has a way of attracting men, she must have inherited from me, I think.' And here she smiled faintly, and would not have rejected a confirmatory compliment, but none came. 'However, I will speak to her; I will get to the bottom of the whole affair. Pray tell Lady Cumnor that it has so fluttered me the way she spoke, about my dress and all. And it only cost five guineas after all, reduced from eight!'

'Well, never mind now. You are looking very much flushed; quite feverish! I left you too long in mamma's hot room. But do you know she is so much pleased to have you here?' And so Lady Cumnor really was, in spite of the continual lectures which she gave 'Clare,' and which poor Mrs. Gibson turned under as helplessly as the typical worm. Still it was something to have a countess to scold her; and that pleasure would endure when the worry was past. And then Lady Harriet petted her more than usual to make up for what she had to go through in the convalescent's room; and Lady Cuxhaven talked sense to her, with dashes of science and deep thought intermixed, which was very flattering, although generally unintelligible; and Lord Cumnor, good-natured, good- tempered, kind, and liberal, was full of gratitude to her for her kindness in coming to see Lady Cumnor, and his gratitude took the tangible shape of a haunch of venison, to say nothing of lesser game. When she looked back upon her visit as she drove home in the solitary grandeur of the Towers' carriage, there had been but one great enduring rub—Lady Cumnor's crossness—and she chose to consider Cynthia as the cause of that, instead of seeing the truth, which had been so often set before her by the members of her ladyship's family, that it took its origin in her state of health. Mrs. Gibson did not exactly mean to visit this one discomfort upon Cynthia, nor did she quite mean to upbraid her daughter for conduct as yet unexplained, and which might have some justification; but, finding her quietly sitting in the drawing-room, she sate down despondingly in her own little easy chair, and in reply to Cynthia's quick, pleasant greeting of,—

'Well, mamma, how are you? We did not expect you so early! Let me take off your bonnet and shawl!' she replied dolefully,—

'It has not been such a happy visit that I should wish to prolong it.' Her eyes were fixed on the carpet, and her face was as irresponsive to the welcome offered as she could make it.

'What has been the matter?' asked Cynthia, in all good faith.

'You! Cynthia—you! I little thought when you were born how I should have to bear to hear you spoken about.'

Cynthia threw back her head, and angry light came into her eyes.

'What business have they with me? How came they to talk about me in any way?'

'Everybody is talking about you; it is no wonder they are. Lord Cumnor is sure to hear about everything always. You should take more care about what you do, Cynthia, if you don't like being talked about.'

'It rather depends upon what people say,' said Cynthia, affecting a lightness which she did not feel; for she had a provision of what was coming.

'Well! I don't like it, at any rate. It is not pleasant to me to hear first of my daughter's misdoings from Lady Cumnor, and then to be lectured about her, and her flirting, and her jilting, as if I had had anything to do with it. I can assure you it has quite spoilt my visit. No! don't touch my shawl. When I go to my room I can take it myself.'

Cynthia was brought to bay, and sate down; remaining with her mother, who kept sighing ostentatiously from time to time.

'Would you mind telling me what they said? If there are accusations abroad against me, it is as well I should know what they are. Here's Molly' (as the girl entered the room, fresh from a morning's walk). 'Molly, mamma has come back from the Towers, and my lord and my lady have been doing me the honour to talk over my crimes and misdemeanors, and I am asking mamma what they have said. I don't set up for more virtue than other people, but I can't make out what an earl and a countess have to do with poor little me.'

'It was not for your sake!' said Mrs. Gibson. 'It was for mine. They felt for me, for it is not pleasant to have one's child's name in everybody's mouth.'

'As I said before, that depends upon how it is in everybody's mouth. If I were going to marry Lord Hollingford, I make no doubt every one would be talking about me, and neither you nor I should mind it in the least.'

'But this is no marriage with Lord Hollingford, so it is nonsense to talk as if it was. They say you've gone and engaged yourself to Mr Preston, and now refuse to marry him; and they call that jilting.'

'Do you wish me to marry him, mamma?' asked Cynthia, her face in a flame, her eyes cast down. Molly stood by, very hot, not fully understanding it; and only kept where she was by the hope of coming in as sweetener or peacemaker, or helper of some kind.

'No,' said Mrs. Gibson, evidently discomfited by the question. 'Of course I don't; you have gone and entangled yourself with Roger Hamley, a very worthy young man; but nobody knows where he is, and if he's dead or alive; and he has not a penny if he is alive.'

'I beg your pardon. I know that he has some fortune from his mother; it may not be much, but he is not penniless; and he is sure to earn fame and great reputation, and with it money will come,' said Cynthia.

'You've entangled yourself with him, and you've done something of the sort with Mr. Preston, and got yourself into such an imbroglio' (Mrs. Gibson could not have said 'mess' for the world, although the word was present to her mind), 'that when a really eligible person comes forward—handsome, agreeable, and quite the gentleman—and a good private fortune into the bargain, you have to refuse him. You'll end as an old maid, Cynthia, and it will break my heart.'

'I daresay I shall,' said Cynthia, quietly. 'I sometimes think I am the kind of person of which old maids are made!' She spoke seriously, and a little sadly.

Mrs. Gibson began again. 'I don't want to know your secrets as long as they are secrets; but when all the town is talking about you, I think I ought to be told.'

'But, mamma, I did not know I was such a subject of conversation; and even now I can't make out how it has come about.'

'No more can I. I only know that they say you've been engaged to Mr Preston, and ought to have married him, and that I can't help it, if you did not choose, any more than I could have helped your refusing Mr. Henderson; and yet I am constantly blamed for your misconduct. I think it's very hard.' Mrs. Gibson began to cry. Just then her husband came in.

'You here, my dear! Welcome back,' said he, coming up to her courteously, and kissing her cheek. 'Why, what's the matter? Tears?' and he heartily wished himself away again.

'Yes!' said she, raising herself up, and clutching after sympathy of any kind, at any price. 'I'm come home again, and I'm telling Cynthia how Lady Cumnor has been so cross to me, and all through her. Did you know she had gone and engaged herself to Mr. Preston, and then broken it off? Everybody is talking about it, and they know it up at the Towers.'

For one moment his eyes met Molly's, and he comprehended it all. He made his lips up into a whistle, but no sound came. Cynthia had quite lost her defiant manner since her mother had spoken to Mr Gibson. Molly sate down by her.

'Cynthia,' said he, very seriously.

'Yes!' she answered, softly.

'Is this true? I had heard something of it before—not much; but there is scandal enough about to make it desirable that you should have some protector—some friend who knows the whole truth.'

No answer. At last she said, 'Molly knows it all.'

Mrs. Gibson, too, had been awed into silence by her husband's grave manner, and she did not like to give vent to the jealous thought in her mind that Molly had known the secret of which she was ignorant. Mr. Gibson replied to Cynthia with some sternness,—

'Yes! I know that Molly knows it all, and that she has had to bear slander and ill words for your sake, Cynthia. But she refused to tell me more.'

'She told you that much, did she?' said Cynthia, aggrieved.

'I could not help it,' said Molly.

'She did not name your name,' said Mr. Gibson. 'At the time I believe she thought she had concealed it—but there was no mistaking who it was.'

'Why did she speak about it at all?' said Cynthia, with some bitterness. Her tone—her question stirred up Mr. Gibson's passion.

'It was necessary for her to justify herself to me—I heard my daughter's reputation attacked for the private meetings she had given to Mr. Preston—I came to her for an explanation. There is no need to be ungenerous, Cynthia, because you have been a flirt and a jilt even to the degree of dragging Molly's name down into the same mire.'

Cynthia lifted her bowed-down head, and looked at him.

'You say that of me, Mr. Gibson. Not knowing what the circumstances are, you say that!'

He had spoken too strongly: he knew it. But he could not bring himself to own it just at that moment. The thought of his sweet innocent Molly, who had borne so much patiently, prevented any retractation of his words at the time.

'Yes!' he said, 'I do say it. You cannot tell what evil constructions are put upon actions ever so slightly beyond the bounds of maidenly propriety. I do say that Molly has had a great deal to bear, in consequence of this clandestine engagement of yours, Cynthia—there may be extenuating circumstances, I acknowledge—but you will need to remember them all to excuse your conduct to Roger Hamley, when he comes home. I asked you to tell me the full truth, in order that until he comes, and has a legal right to protect you, I may do so.' No answer. 'It certainly requires explanation,' continued he. 'Here are you,— engaged to two men at once to all appearances!' Still no answer. 'To be sure, the gossips of the town have not yet picked out the fact of Roger Hamley's being your accepted lover; but scandal has been resting on Molly, and ought to have rested on you, Cynthia—for a concealed engagement to Mr. Preston—necessitating meetings in all sorts of places unknown to your friends.'

'Papa,' said Molly, 'if you knew all you would not speak so to Cynthia. I wish she would tell you herself all that she has told me.'

'I am ready to hear whatever she has to say,' said he. But Cynthia said,—

'No! you have prejudged me; you have spoken to me as you had no right to speak. I refuse to give you my confidence, or accept your help. People are very cruel to me'—her voice trembled for a moment,—'I did not think you would have been. But I can bear it.'

And then, in spite of Molly, who would have detained her by force, she tore herself away, and hastily left the room.

'Oh, papa!' said Molly, crying, and clinging to him, 'do let me tell you all.' And then she suddenly recollected the awkwardness of telling some of the details of the story before Mrs. Gibson, and stopped short.

'I think, Mr. Gibson, you have been very very unkind to my poor fatherless child,' said Mrs. Gibson, emerging from behind her pocket- handkerchief. 'I only wish her poor father had been alive, and all this would never have happened.'

'Very probably. Still I cannot see of what either she or you have to complain. Inasmuch as we could, I and mine have sheltered her; I have loved her; I do love her almost as if she were my own child—as well as Molly, I do not pretend to do.'

'That's it, Mr. Gibson! you do not treat her like your own child.' But in the midst of this wrangle Molly stole out, and went in search of Cynthia. She thought she bore an olive-branch of healing in the sound of her father's just spoken words: 'I do love her almost as if she were my own child.' But Cynthia was locked into her room, and refused to open the' door.

'Open to me, please,' pleaded Molly. 'I have something to say to you—I want to see you—do open!'

'No!' said Cynthia. 'Not now. I am busy. Leave me alone. I don't want to hear what you have got to say. I do not want to see you. By-and-by we shall meet, and then—' Molly stood quite quietly, wondering what new words of more persuasion she could use. In a minute or two Cynthia called out, 'Are you there still, Molly?' and when Molly answered 'Yes,' and hoped for a relenting, the same hard metallic voice, telling of resolution and repression, spoke out, 'Go away. I cannot bear the feeling of your being there—waiting and listening. Go downstairs—out of the house—anywhere away. It is the most you can do for me, now.'



CHAPTER LI

'TROUBLES NEVER COME ALONE'

Molly had her out-of-door things on, and she crept away as she was bidden; she lifted her heavy weight of heart and body along till she came to a field, not so very far off,—where she had sought the comfort of loneliness ever since she was a child; and there, under the hedge- bank, she sate down, burying her face in her hands, and quivering all over as she thought of Cynthia's misery, that she might not try to touch or assuage. She never knew how long she sate there, but it was long past lunch-time when once again she stole up to her room. The door opposite was open wide,—Cynthia had quitted the chamber. Molly arranged her dress and went down into the drawing-room. Cynthia and her mother sate there in the stern repose of an armed neutrality. Cynthia's face looked made of stone, for colour and rigidity; but she was netting away as if nothing unusual had occurred. Not so Mrs. Gibson: her face bore evident marks of tears, and she looked up and greeted Molly's entrance with a faint smiling notice. Cynthia went on as though she had never heard the opening of the door, or felt the approaching sweep of Molly's dress. Molly took up a book,—not to read, but to have the semblance of some employment which should not necessitate conversation.

There was no measuring the duration of the silence that ensued. Molly grew to fancy it was some old enchantment that weighed upon their tongues and kept them still. At length Cynthia spoke, but she had to begin again before her words came clear,—

'I wish you both to know that henceforward all is at an end between me and Roger Hamley.'

Molly's book went down upon her knees; with open eyes and lips she strove to draw in Cynthia's meaning. Mrs. Gibson spoke querulously, as if injured,—

'I could have understood this if it had happened three months ago,— when you were in London; but now it's just nonsense, Cynthia, and you know you don't mean it!'

Cynthia did not reply; nor did the resolute look on her face change when Molly spoke at last,—

'Cynthia—think of him! It will break his heart!'

'No!' said Cynthia, 'it will not. But even if it did, I cannot help it.'

'All this talk will soon pass away!' said Molly; 'and when he knows the truth from your own self—'

'From my own self he shall never hear it. I do not love him well enough to go through the shame of having to excuse myself,—to plead that he will reinstate me in his good opinion. Confession may be—well! I can never believe it pleasant—but it may be an ease of mind if one makes it to some people,—to some person,—and it may not be a mortification to sue for forgiveness. I cannot tell. All I know is,—and I know it clearly, and will act upon it inflexibly—that—' And there she stopped short.

'I think you might finish your sentence,' said her mother, after a silence of five seconds.

'I cannot bear to exculpate myself to Roger Hamley. I will not submit to his thinking less well of me than he has done,—however foolish his judgment may have been. I would rather never see him again, for these two reasons. And the truth is, I do not love him. I like him, I respect him; but I will not marry him. I have written to tell him so. That was merely as a relief to myself, for when or where the letter will reach him—And I have written to old Mr Hamley. The relief is the one good thing come out of it all. It is such a comfort to feel free again. It wearied me so to think of straining up to his goodness. "Extenuate my conduct!"' she concluded, quoting Mr. Gibson's words. Yet when Mr. Gibson came home, after a silent dinner, she asked to speak with him, alone, in his consulting-room; and there laid bare the exculpation of herself which she had given to Molly many weeks before. When she had ended, she said,—

'And now, Mr. Gibson,—I still treat you like a friend,—help me to find some home far away, where all the evil talking and gossip mamma tells me of cannot find me and follow me. It may be wrong to care for people's good opinion,—but it is me, and I cannot alter myself. You, Molly,—all the people in the town,—I have not the patience to live through the nine days' wonder. I want to go away and be a governess.'

'But, my dear Cynthia,—how soon Roger will be back,—a tower of strength.'

'Has not mamma told you I have broken it all off with Roger? I wrote this morning. I wrote to his father. That letter will reach to-morrow. I wrote to Roger. If he ever receives that letter I hope to be far away by that time; in Russia may be.'

'Nonsense. An engagement like yours cannot be broken off, except by mutual consent. You have only given others a great deal of pain, without freeing yourself. Nor will you wish it in a month's time. When you come to think calmly you will be glad to think of the stay and support of such a husband as Roger. You have been in fault, and have acted foolishly at first,—perhaps wrongly afterwards; but you don't want your husband to think you faultless?'

'Yes, I do,' said Cynthia. 'At any rate, my lover must think me so. And it is just because I do not love him even as so light a thing as I could love, that I feel that I could not bear to have to tell him I'm sorry, and stand before him like a chidden child to be admonished and forgiven.'

'But here you are, just in such a position before me, Cynthia!'

'Yes! but I love you better than Roger; I have often told Molly so. And I would have told you, if I had not expected and hoped to leave you all before long. I could see if the recollection of it all came up before your mind; I could see it in your eyes; I should know it by instinct. I have a fine instinct for reading the thoughts of others when they refer to me. I almost hate the idea of Roger judging me by his own standard, which was not made for me, and graciously forgiving me at last.'

'Then I do believe it is right for you to break it off,' said Mr Gibson, almost as if he was thinking to himself. 'That poor lad! But it will be best for him too. And he'll get over it. He has a good strong heart. Poor old Roger!'

For a moment Cynthia's wilful fancy stretched after the object passing out of her grasp,—Roger's love became for the instant a treasure; but, again, she knew that in its entirety of high undoubting esteem, as well as of passionate regard, it would no longer be hers; and for the flaw which she herself had made, she cast it away, and would none of it. Yet often in after years, when it was too late, she wondered, and strove to penetrate the inscrutable mystery of 'what would have been.'

'Still take till to-morrow before you act upon your decision,' said Mr. Gibson, slowly. 'What faults you have fallen into have been mere girlish faults at first,—leading you into much deceit, I grant.'

'Don't give yourself the trouble to define the shades of blackness,' said Cynthia, bitterly. 'I am not so obtuse but what I know them all better than any one can tell me. And as for my decision I acted upon it at once. It may be long before Roger gets my letter,—but I hope he is sure to get it at last,—and, as I said, I have let his father know; it won't hurt him! Oh, sir, I think if I had been differently brought up I should not have had the sore angry heart I have. Now! No, don't! I don't want reasoning comfort. I can't stand it. I should always have wanted admiration and worship, and men's good opinion. Those unkind gossips! To visit Molly with their hard words! Oh, dear! I think life is very dreary.'

She put her head down on her hands; tired out mentally as well as bodily. So Mr. Gibson thought. He felt as if much speech from him would only add to her excitement, and make her worse. He left the room, and called Molly, from where she was sitting, dolefully. 'Go to Cynthia!' he whispered, and Molly went. She took Cynthia into her arms with gentle power, and laid her head against her own breast, as if the one had been a mother, and the other a child.

'Oh, my darling!' she murmured. 'I do so love you, dear, dear Cynthia!' and she stroked her hair, and kissed her eyelids; Cynthia passive all the while, till suddenly she started up stung with a new idea, and looking Molly straight in the face, she said,—

'Molly, Roger will marry you! See if it is not so! You two good—'

But Molly pushed her away with a sudden violence of repulsion. 'Don't!' she said. She was crimson with shame and indignation. 'Your husband this morning! Mine to-night! What do you take him for?'

'A man!' smiled Cynthia. 'And therefore, if you won't let me call him changeable, I'll coin a word and call him consolable!' But Molly gave her back no answering smile. At this moment, the servant Maria entered the consulting-room, where the two girls were. She had a scared look.

'Is not master here?' asked she, as if she distrusted her eyes.

'No!' said Cynthia. 'I heard him go out. I heard him shut the front door not five minutes ago.'

'Oh, dear!' said Maria. 'And there's a man come on horseback from Hamley Hall, and he says Mr. Osborne is dead, and that master must go off to the squire straight away!'

'Osborne Hamley dead?' said Cynthia, in awed surprise. Molly was out at the front door, seeking the messenger through the dusk, round into the stable-yard, where the groom sate motionless on his dark horse, flecked with foam, made visible by the lantern placed on the steps near, where it had been left by the servants, who were dismayed at this news of the handsome young man who had frequented their master's house, so full of sportive elegance and winsomeness. Molly went up to the man, whose thoughts were lost in recollection of the scene he had left at the place he had come from.

She laid her hand on the hot damp skin of the horse's shoulder; the man started.

'Is the doctor coming, Miss?' For he saw who it was by the dim light.

'He is dead, is he not?' asked Molly, in a low voice.

'I'm afeard he is,—leastways there is no doubt according to what they said. But I have ridden hard! there may be a chance. Is the doctor coming, Miss?'

'He is gone out. They are seeking him, I believe. I will go myself. Oh! the poor old squire.' She went into the kitchen—went over the house with swift rapidity to gain news of her father's whereabouts. The servants knew no more than she did. Neither she nor they had heard what Cynthia, ever quick of perception, had done. The shutting of the front door had fallen on deaf ears, as far as others were concerned. Upstairs sped Molly to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Gibson stood at the door, listening to the unusual stir in the house.

'What is it, Molly? Why, how white you look, child!'

'Where's papa?'

'Gone out. What's the matter?'

'Where?'

'How should I know? I was asleep; Jenny came upstairs on her way to the bedrooms; she's a girl who never keeps to her work, and Maria takes advantage of her.'

'Jenny, Jenny!' cried Molly, frantic at the delay.

'Don't shout, dear,—ring the bell. What can be the matter?'

'Oh, Jenny!' said Molly, half way up the stairs to meet her, 'who wanted papa?'

Cynthia came to join the group; she too had been looking for traces or tidings of Mr. Gibson.

'What is the matter?' said Mrs. Gibson. 'Can nobody speak and answer a question?'

'Osborne Hamley is dead!' said Cynthia, gravely.

'Dead! Osborne! Poor fellow! I knew it would be so, though,—I was sure of it. But Mr. Gibson can do nothing if he's dead. Poor young man! I wonder where Roger is now? He ought to come home.'

Jenny bad been blamed for coming into the drawing-room instead of Maria, whose place it was, and so had lost the few wits she had. To Molly's hurried questions her replies had been entirely unsatisfactory. A man had come to the back door—she could not see who it was—she had not asked his name: he wanted to speak to master,—master had seemed in a hurry, and only stopped to get his hat.

'He will not be long away,' thought Molly, 'or he would have left word where he was going. But oh! the poor father all alone.' And then a thought came into her head, which she acted upon straight. 'Go to James, tell him to put the side-saddle I had in November on Nora Creina. Don't cry, Jenny. There's no time for that. No one is angry with you. Run!'

So down into the cluster of collected women Molly came, equipped in her jacket and skirt; quick determination in her eyes; controlled quivering about the corners of her mouth.

'Why, what in the world,' said Mrs. Gibson,—'Molly, what are you thinking about?' But Cynthia had understood it at a glance, and was arranging Molly's hastily assumed dress, as she passed along.

'I am going. I must go. I cannot bear to think of him alone. When papa comes back he is sure to go to Hamley, and if I am not wanted, I can come back with him.' She heard Mrs. Gibson's voice following her in remonstrance, but she did not stay for words. She had to wait in the stable-yard, and she wondered how the messenger could bear to eat and drink the food and beer brought out to him by the servants. Her coming out had evidently interrupted the eager talk,—the questions and answers passing sharp to and fro; but she caught the words, 'all amongst the tangled grass,' and 'the squire would let none on us touch him: he took him up as if he was a baby; he had to rest many a time, and once he sate him down on the ground; but still he kept him in his arms; but we thought we should ne'er have gotten him up again—him and the body.'

'The body!'

Molly had never felt that Osborne was really dead till she heard those words. They rode quick under the shadows of the budding hedgerow trees, but when they slackened speed, to go up a brow, or to give their horses breath, Molly heard those two little words again in her cars; and said them over again to herself, in hopes of forcing the sharp truth into her unwilling sense. But when they came in sight of the square stillness of the house, shining in the moonlight—the moon had risen by this time—Molly caught at her breath, and for an instant she thought she never could go in, and face the presence in that dwelling. One yellow light burnt steadily, spotting the silver shining with its earthly coarseness. The man pointed it out: it was almost the first word he had spoken since they had left Hollingford.

'It's the old nursery. They carried him there. The squire broke down at the stair-foot, and they took him to the readiest place. I'll be bound for it the squire is there hisself, and old Robin too. They fetched him, as a knowledgable man among dumb beasts, till th' regular doctor came.'

Molly dropped down from her seat before the man could dismount to help her. She gathered up her skirts and did not stay again to think of what was before her. She ran along the once familiar turns, and swiftly up the stairs, and through the doors, till she came to the last; then she stopped and listened. It was a deathly silence. She opened the door: the squire was sitting alone at the side of the bed, holding the dead man's hand, and looking straight before him at vacancy. He did not stir or move, even so much as an eyelid, at Molly's entrance. The truth had entered his soul before this, and he knew that no doctor, be he ever so cunning, could, with all his striving, put the breath into that body again. Molly came up to him with the softest steps, the most hushed breath that ever she could. She did not speak, for she did not know what to say. She felt that he had no more hope from earthly skill, so what was the use of speaking of her father and the delay in his coming? After a moment's pause, standing by the old man's side, she slipped down to the floor, and sate at his feet. Possibly her presence might have some balm in it; but uttering of words was as a vain thing. He must have been aware of her being there, but he took no apparent notice. There they sate, silent and still, he in his chair, she on the floor; the dead man, beneath the sheet, for a third. She fancied that she must have disturbed the father in his contemplation of the quiet face, now more than half, but not fully, covered up out of sight. Time had never seemed so without measure, silence had never seemed so noiseless as it did to Molly, sitting there. In the acuteness of her senses she heard a step mounting a distant staircase, coming slowly, coming nearer. She knew it not to be her father's, and that was all she cared about. Nearer and nearer—close to the outside of the door—a pause, and a soft hesitating tap. The great gaunt figure sitting by her side quivered at the sound. Molly rose and went to the door: it was Robinson, the old butler, holding in his hand a covered basin of soup.

'God bless you, Miss,' said he; 'make him touch a drop o' this: he's gone since breakfast without food, and it's past one in the morning now.'

He softly removed the cover, and Molly took the basin back with her to her place at the squire's side. She did not speak, for she did not well know what to say, or how to present this homely want of nature before one so rapt in grief. But she put a spoonful to his lips, and touched them with the savoury food, as if he had been a sick child, and she the nurse; and instinctively he took down the first spoonful of the soup. But in a minute he said, with a sort of cry, and almost overturning the basin Molly held, by his passionate gesture as he pointed to the bed,—

'He will never eat again—never.'

Then he threw himself across the corpse, and wept in such a terrible manner that Molly trembled lest he also should die—should break his heart there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of her tears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon, looking through the unclosed window, with passionless stare, Her father stood by them both before either of them was aware.

'Go downstairs, Molly,' said he gravely; but he stroked her head tenderly as she rose. 'Go into the dining-room.' Now she felt the reaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear as she went along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she should meet Osborne, and hear it all explained; how he came to die,—what he now felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to the dining- room,—the last few steps with a rush of terror,—senseless terror of what might be behind her; and there she found supper laid out, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about decanting some wine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet place, and weep away her over- excitement; but she could hardly do so there. She only felt very much tired, and to care for nothing in this world any more. But vividness of life came back when she found Robinson holding a glass to her lips as she sate in the great leather easy-chair, to which she had gone instinctively as to a place of rest.

'Drink, Miss. It's good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was to eat a bit. Says he, "My daughter may have to stay here, Mr Robinson, and she's young for the work. Persuade her to eat something, or she'll break down utterly." Those was his very words.'

Molly did not say anything. She had not energy enough for resistance. She drank and she ate at the old servant's bidding; and then she asked him to leave her alone, and went back to her easy-chair and let herself cry, and so ease her heart.



CHAPTER LII

SQUIRE HAMLEY'S SORROW

It seemed very long before Mr. Gibson came down. He went and stood with his back to the empty fireplace, and did not speak for a minute or two.

'He's gone to bed,' said he at length. 'Robinson and I have got him there. But just as I was leaving him he called me back, and asked me to let you stop. I'm sure I don't know—but one doesn't like to refuse at such a time.'

'I wish to stay,' said Molly.

'Do you? There's a good girl. But how will you manage?'

'Oh, never mind that. I can manage. Papa,'—she paused—what did Osborne die of?' She asked the question in a low, awe-stricken voice.

'Something wrong about the heart. You wouldn't understand if I told you. I apprehended it for some time; but it is better not to talk of such things at home. When I saw him on Thursday week, he seemed better than I have seen him for a long time. I told Dr Nicholls so. But one never can calculate in these complaints.'

'You saw him on Thursday week? Why, you never mentioned it!' said Molly.

'No. I don't talk of my patients at home, Besides, I didn't want him to consider me as his doctor, but as a friend. Any alarm about his own health would only have hastened the catastrophe.'

'Then didn't he know that he was ill—ill of a dangerous complaint, I mean, one that might end as it has done?'

'No; certainly not. He would only have been watching his symptoms— accelerating matters, in fact.'

'Oh, papa!' said Molly, shocked.

'I've no time to go into the question,' Mr. Gibson continued. 'And until you know what has to be said on both sides, and in every instance, you are not qualified to judge. We must keep our attention on the duties in hand now. You sleep here for the remainder of the night, which is more than half-gone already?'

'Yes.'

'Promise me to go to bed just as usual. You may not think it, but most likely you'll go to sleep at once. People do at your age.'

'Papa, I think I ought to tell you something. I know a great secret of Osborne's, which I promised solemnly not to tell; but the last time I saw him I think he must have been afraid of something like this.' A fit of sobbing came upon her, which her father was afraid would end in hysterics. But suddenly she mastered herself, and looked up into his anxious face, and smiled to reassure him.

'I could not help it, papa!'

'No. I know. Go on with what you were saying. You ought to be in bed; but if you have a secret on your mind you won't sleep.'

'Osborne was married,' said she, fixing her eyes on her father. 'That is the secret.'

'Married! Nonsense. What makes you think so?'

'He told me. That's to say, I was in the library—was reading there, some time ago; and Roger came and spoke to Osborne about his wife. Roger did not see me, but Osborne did. They made me promise secrecy. I don't think I did wrong.'

'Don't worry yourself about right or wrong just now; tell me more about it, at once.'

'I knew no more till six months ago—last November, when you went up to Lady Cumnor. Then he called, and gave me his wife's address, but still under promise of secrecy; and, excepting those two times, I have never heard any one mention the subject. I think he would have told me more that last time, only Miss Phoebe came in.'

'Where is this wife of his?'

'Down in the south; near Winchester, I think. He said she was a Frenchwoman and a Roman Catholic; and I think he said she was a servant,' added Molly.

'Phew!' Her father made a long whistle of dismay.

'And,' continued Molly, 'he spoke of a child. Now you know as much as I do, papa, except the address. I have it written down safe at home.'

Forgetting, apparently, what time of night it was, Mr. Gibson sate down, stretched out his legs before him, put his hands in his pockets, and began to think. Molly sate still without speaking, too tired to do more than wait.

'Well!' said he at last, jumping up, 'nothing can be done to-night; by to-morrow morning, perhaps, I may find out. Poor little pale face!'— taking it between both his hands and kissing it; 'poor, sweet, little pale face!' Then he rang the bell, and told Robinson to send some maid- servant to take Miss Gibson to her room.

'He won't be up early,' said he, in parting. 'The shock has lowered him too much to be energetic. Send breakfast up to him in his own room. I'll be here again before ten.'

Late as it was before he left, he kept his word.

'Now, Molly,' he said, 'you and I must tell him the truth between us. I don't know how he will take it; it may comfort him, but I have very little hope: either way, he ought to know it at once.'

'Robinson says he has gone into the room again, and he is afraid he has locked the door on the inside.'

'Never mind. I shall ring the bell, and send up Robinson to say that I am here, and wish to speak to him.'

The message returned was, 'The squire's kind love, and could not see Mr. Gibson just then.' Robinson added, 'It was a long time before he'd answer at all, sir.'

'Go up again, and tell him I can wait his convenience. Now that's a lie,' Mr. Gibson said, turning round to Molly as soon as Robinson had left the room. 'I ought to be far enough away at twelve; but, if I'm not much mistaken, the innate habits of a gentleman will make him uneasy at the idea of keeping me waiting his pleasure, and will do more to bring him out of that room into this than any entreaties or reasoning.' Mr. Gibson was growing impatient though, before they heard the squire's footstep on the stairs; he was evidently coming slowly and unwillingly. He came in almost like one blind, groping along, and taking hold of chair or table for support or guidance till he reached Mr. Gibson. He did not speak when he held the doctor by the hand; he only hung down his head, and kept on a feeble shaking of welcome.

'I'm brought very low, sir. I suppose it's God's doing; but it comes hard upon me. He was my firstborn child.' He said this almost as if speaking to a stranger, and informing him of facts of which he was ignorant.

'Here's Molly,' said Mr. Gibson, choking a little himself, and pushing her forwards.

'I beg your pardon; I did not see you at first. My mind is a good deal occupied just now.' He sate heavily down, and then seemed almost to forget they were there. Molly wondered what was to come next. Suddenly her father spoke,—

'Where's Roger?' said he. 'Is he not likely to be soon at the Cape?' He got up and looked at the directions of one or two unopened letters brought by that morning's post; among them was one in Cynthia's handwriting. Both Molly and he saw it at the same time. How long it was since yesterday! But the squire took no notice of their proceedings or their looks.

'You will be glad to have Roger at home as soon as may be, I think, sir. Some months must elapse first; but I'm sure he will return as speedily as possible.'

The squire said something in a very low voice. Both father and daughter strained their ears to hear what it was. They both believed it to be, 'Roger is not Osborne!' And Mr. Gibson spoke on that belief. He spoke more quietly than Molly had ever heard him do before.

'No! we know that. I wish that anything that Roger could do, or that I could do, or that any one could do, would comfort you; but it is past human comfort.'

'I do try to say, God's will be done, sir,' said the squire, looking up at Mr. Gibson for the first time, and speaking with more life in his voice; 'but it is harder to be resigned than happy people think.' They were all silent for a while. The squire himself was the first to speak again,—'He was my first child, sir; my eldest son. And of late years we weren't'—his voice broke down, but he controlled himself—'we weren't quite as good friends as could be wished; and I'm not sure—not sure that he knew how I loved him.' And now he cried aloud with an exceeding bitter cry.

'Better so!' whispered Mr. Gibson to Molly. 'When he is a little calmer, don't be afraid; tell him all you know, exactly as it happened.'

Molly began. Her voice sounded high and unnatural to herself, as if some one else was speaking, but she made her words clear. The squire did not attempt to listen, at first, at any rate.

'One day when I was here, at the time of Mrs. Hamley's last illness' (the squire here checked his convulsive breathing), 'I was in the library, and Osborne came in. He said he had only come in for a book, and that I was not to mind him, so I went on reading. Presently, Roger came along the flagged garden-path just outside the window (which was open). He did not see me in the corner where I was sitting, and said to Osborne, "Here's a letter from your wife!"'

Now the squire was all attention; for the first time his tear-swollen eyes met the eyes of another, and he looked at Molly with searching anxiety, as he repeated, 'His wife! Osborne married!' Molly went on,—

'Osborne was angry with Roger for speaking out before me, and they made me promise never to mention it to any one; or to allude to it to either of them again. I never named it to papa till last night.'

'Go on,' said Mr. Gibson. 'Tell the squire about Osborne's call,—what you told me!' Still the squire hung on her lips, listening with open mouth and eyes.

'Some months ago Osborne called. He was not well, and wanted to see papa. Papa was away, and I was alone. I don't exactly remember how it came about, but he spoke to me of his wife for the first and only time since the affair in the library.' She looked at her father, as if questioning him as to the desirableness of telling the few further particulars that she knew. The squire's mouth was dry and stiff, but he tried to say, 'Tell me all,—everything.' And Molly understood the half-formed words.

'He said his wife was a good woman, and that he loved her dearly; but she was a French Roman Catholic, and a'—another glance at her father— 'she had been a servant once. That was all; except that I have her address at home. He wrote it down and gave it me.'

'Well, well!' moaned the squire. 'It's all over now. All over. All past and gone. We'll not blame him,—no; but I wish he'd a told me; he and I to live together with such a secret in one of us. It's no wonder to me now—nothing can be a wonder again, for one never can tell what's in a man's heart. Married so long! and we sitting together at meals—and living together. Why, I told him everything! Too much, may be, for I showed him all my passions and ill-tempers! Married so long! Oh, Osborne, Osborne, you should have told me!'

'Yes, he should!' said Mr. Gibson. 'But I daresay he knew how much you would dislike such a choice as he had made. But he should have told you!'

'You know nothing about it, sir,' said the squire sharply. 'You don't know the terms we were on. Not hearty or confidential. I was cross to him many a time, angry with him for being dull, poor lad—and he with all this weight on his mind. I won't have people interfering and judging between me and my sons. And Roger too! He could know it all, and keep it from me!'

'Osborne evidently had bound him down to secrecy, just as he bound me,' said Molly; 'Roger could not help himself.'

'Osborne was such a fellow for persuading people, and winning them over,' said the squire, dreamily. 'I remember—but what's the use of remembering? It's all over, and Osborne is dead without opening his heart to me. I could have been tender to him, I could. But he'll never know it now!'

'But we can guess what wish he had strongest in his mind at the last, from what we do know of his life.' said Mr. Gibson.

'What, sir?' said the squire, with sharp suspicion of what was coming.

'His wife must have been his last thought, must she not?'

'How do I know she was his wife? Do you think he'd go and marry a French baggage of a servant? It may be all a tale trumped up.'

'Stop, squire. I don't care to defend my daughter's truth or accuracy. But with the dead man's body lying upstairs—his soul with God—think twice before you say more hasty words, impugning his character; if she was not his wife, what was she?'

'I beg your pardon. I hardly know what I am saying. Did I accuse Osborne? Oh, my lad, my lad—thou might have trusted thy old dad! He used to call me his "old dad" when he was a little chap not bigger than this,' indicating a certain height with his hand. 'I never meant to say he was not—not what one would wish to think him now—his soul with God, as you say very justly—for I am sure it is there—'

'Well! but, squire,' said Mr. Gibson, trying to check the other's rambling, 'to return to his wife—'

'And the child,' whispered Molly to her father. Low as the whisper was, it struck on the squire's ear.

'What?' said he, turning round to her suddenly, '—child! You never named that? Is there a child? Husband and father, and I never knew! God bless Osborne's child! I say, God bless it!' He stood up reverently, and the other two instinctively rose. He closed his hands as if in momentary prayer. Then exhausted he sate down again, and put out his hand to Molly.

'You're a good girl. Thank you. Tell me what I ought to do, and I'll do it.' This to Mr. Gibson.

'I am almost as much puzzled as you are, squire,' replied he. 'I fully believe the whole story; but I think there must be some written confirmation of it, which perhaps ought to be found at once, before we act. Most probably this is to be discovered among Osborne's papers. Will you look over them at once? Molly shall return with me, and find the address that Osborne gave her, while you are busy—'

'She'll come back again?' said the squire eagerly. 'You—she won't leave me to myself?'

'No! She shall come back this evening. I'll manage to send her somehow. But she has no clothes but the habit she came in, and I want my horse that she rode away upon.'

'Take the carriage,' said the squire. 'Take anything. I'll give orders. You'll come back again, too?'

'No! I'm afraid not, to-day. I'll come to-morrow, early. Molly shall return this evening, whenever it suits you to send for her.'

'This afternoon; the carriage shall be at your house at three. I dare not look at Osborne's—at the papers without one of you with me; and yet I shall never rest till I know more.'

'I will send the desk in by Robinson before I leave. And—can you give me some lunch before I go?'

Little by little he led the squire to eat a morsel or so of food; and so, strengthening him physically, and encouraging him mentally, Mr. Gibson hoped that he would begin his researches during Molly's absence.

There was something touching in the squire's wistful looks after Molly as she moved about. A stranger might have imagined her to be his daughter instead of Mr. Gibson's. The meek, broken-down, considerate ways of the bereaved father never showed themselves more strongly than when he called them back to his chair, out of which he seemed too languid to rise, and said, as if by an after-thought,—'Give my love to Miss Kirkpatrick; tell her I look upon her as quite one of the family. I shall be glad to see her after—after the funeral. I don't think I can before.'

'He knows nothing of Cynthia's resolution to give up Roger,' said Mr Gibson as they rode away. 'I had a long talk with her last night, but she was as resolute as ever. From what your mamma tells me, there is a third lover in London, whom she's already refused. I'm thankful that you've no lover at all, Molly, unless that abortive attempt of Mr. Coxe's at an offer, long ago, can be called a lover.'

'I never heard of it, papa,' said Molly.

'Oh, no. I forgot. What a fool I was! Why, don't you remember the hurry I was in to get you off to Hamley Hall, the very first time you ever went? It was all because I got hold of a desperate love-letter from Coxe, addressed to you.'

But Molly was too tired to be amused, or even interested. She could not get over the sight of the straight body covered with a sheet, which yet let the outlines be seen,—all that remained of Osborne. Her father had trusted too much to the motion of the ride, and the change of scene from the darkened house. He saw his mistake.

'Some one must write to Mrs. Osborne Hamley,' said he. 'I believe her to have a legal right to the name; but whether or no, she must be told that the father of her child is dead. Shall you do it, or I?'

'Oh, you, please, papa!'

'I will, if you wish, But she may have heard of you as a friend of her dead husband's; while of me—a mere country doctor—it's very probable she has never heard the name.'

'If I ought, I will do it.' Mr. Gibson did not like this ready acquiescence, given in so few words, too.

'There's Hollingford church-spire,' said she presently, as they drew near the town, and caught a glimpse of the church through the trees. 'I think I never wish to go out of sight of it again.'

'Nonsense!' said he. 'Why, you've all your travelling to do yet; and if these newfangled railways spread, as they say they will, we shall all be spinning about the world; "sitting on tea-kettles," as Phoebe Browning calls it. Miss Browning wrote such a capital letter of advice to Miss Hornblower. I heard of it at the Millers'. Miss Hornblower was going to travel by railroad for the first time; and Sally was very anxious, and sent her directions for her conduct; one piece of advice was not to sit on the boiler.'

Molly laughed a little, as she was expected to do.

'Here we are at home, at last.'

Mrs. Gibson gave Molly a warm welcome. For one thing, Cynthia was in disgrace; for another, Molly came from the centre of news; for a third, Mrs. Gibson was really fond of the girl, in her way, and sorry to see her pale heavy looks.

'To think of it all being so sudden at last! Not but what I always expected it! And so provoking! Just when Cynthia had given up Roger! If she had only waited a day! What does the squire say to it all?'

'He is beaten down with grief,' replied Molly.

'Indeed! I should not have fancied he had liked the engagement so much.'

'What engagement?'

'Why, Roger to Cynthia, to be sure. I asked you how the squire took her letter, announcing the breaking of it off?'

'Oh—I made a mistake. He has not opened his letters to-day. I saw Cynthia's among them.'

'Now that I call positive disrespect.'

'I don't know. He did not mean it for such. Where is Cynthia?'

'Gone out into the meadow-garden. She'll be in directly. I wanted her to do some errands for me, but she flatly refused to go into the town. I am afraid she mismanages her affairs sadly. But she won't allow me to interfere. I hate to look at such things in a mercenary spirit, but it is provoking to see her throw over two such good matches. First Mr. Henderson, and now Roger Hamley. When does the squire expect Roger? Does he think he will come back sooner for poor dear Osborne's death?'

'I don't know. He hardly seems to think of anything but Osborne. He seems to me to have almost forgotten every one else. But perhaps the news of Osborne's being married, and of the child, may rouse him up.'

Molly had no doubt that Osborne was really and truly married, nor had she any idea that her father had never breathed the facts of which she had told him on the previous night, to his wife or Cynthia. But Mr. Gibson had been slightly dubious of the full legality of the marriage, and had not felt inclined to speak of it to his wife until that had been ascertained one way or another. So Mrs. Gibson exclaimed, 'What do you mean, child? Married! Osborne married. Who says so?'

'Oh, dear! I suppose I ought not to have named it. I am very stupid to- day. Yes! Osborne has been married a long time; but the squire did not know of it until this morning. I think it has done him good. But I don't know.'

'Who is the lady? Why, I call it a shame to go about as a single man, and be married all the time! If there is one thing that revolts me, it is duplicity. Who is the lady? Do tell me all you know about it, there's a dear.'

'She is French, and a Roman Catholic,' said Molly.

'French! They are such beguiling women; and he was so much abroad! You said there was a child,—is it a boy or girl?'

'I did not hear. I did not ask.'

Molly did not think it necessary to do more than answer questions; indeed, she was vexed enough to have told anything of what her father evidently considered it desirable to keep secret. Just then Cynthia came wandering into the room with a careless, hopeless look in her face, which Molly noticed at once. She had not heard of Molly's arrival, and had no idea that she was returned until she saw her sitting there.

'Molly, darling! Is that you? You're as welcome as the flowers in May, though you've not been gone twenty-four hours. But the house is not the same when you are away!'

'And she brings us such news too!' said Mrs. Gibson. 'I'm really almost glad you wrote to the squire yesterday, for if you had waited till to- day—I thought you were in too great a hurry at the time—he might have thought you had some interested reason for giving up your engagement. Osborne Hamley was married all this time unknown to everybody, and has got a child too.'

'Osborne married!' exclaimed Cynthia. 'If ever a man looked a bachelor, he did. Poor Osborne! with his fair delicate elegance,—he looked so young and boyish!'

'Yes! it was a great piece of deceit, and I can't easily forgive him for it. Only think! If he had paid either of you any particular attention, and you had fallen in love with him! Why, he might have broken your heart, or Molly's either. I can't forgive him, even though he is dead, poor fellow!'

Well, as he never did pay either of us any particular attention, and as we neither of us did fall in love with him, I think I only feel sorry that he had all the trouble and worry of concealment.' Cynthia spoke with a pretty keen recollection of how much trouble and worry her concealment had cost her.

'And now of course it is a son, and will be the heir, and Roger will just be as poorly off as ever. I hope you'll take care and let the squire know Cynthia was quite ignorant of these new facts that have come out when she wrote those letters, Molly? I should not like a suspicion of worldliness to rest upon any one with whom I had any concern.'

'He has not read Cynthia's letter yet. Oh, do let me bring it home unopened,' said Molly. 'Send another letter to Roger—now—at once; it will reach him at the same time; he will get both when he arrives at the Cape, and make him understand which is the last—the real one. Think! he will hear of Osborne's death at the same time—two such sad things! Do, Cynthia!'

'No, my dear,' said Mrs. Gibson. 'I could not allow that, even if Cynthia felt inclined for it. Asking to be re-engaged to him! At any rate, she must wait now until he proposes again, and we see how things turn out.'

But Molly kept her pleading eyes fixed on Cynthia.

'No!' said Cynthia firmly, but not without consideration. 'It cannot be. I have felt more content this last night than I have done for weeks past. I am glad to be free. I dreaded Roger's goodness, and learning, and all that. It was not in my way, and I don't believe I should have ever married him, even without knowing of all these ill-natured stories that are circulating about me, and which he would hear of, and expect me to explain, and be sorry for, and penitent and humble. I know he could not have made me happy, and I don't believe he would have been happy with me. It must stay as it is. I would rather be a governess than married to him. I should get weary of him every day of my life.'

'Weary of Roger!' said Molly to herself. 'It is best as it is, I see,' she answered aloud. 'Only I am very sorry for him, very. He did love you so. You will never get any one to love you like him!'

'Very well. I must take my chance. And too much love is rather oppressive to me, I believe. I like a great deal, widely spread about; not all confined to one individual lover.'

'I don't believe you,' said Molly. 'But don't let us talk any more about it. It is best as it is. I thought—I almost felt sure you would be sorry this morning. But we will leave it alone now.' She sate silently looking out of the window, her heart sorely stirred, she scarcely knew how or why. But she could not have spoken. Most likely she would have begun to cry if she had spoken. Cynthia stole softly up to her after a while.

'You are vexed with me, Molly,' she began in a low voice. But Molly turned sharply round.

'I! I have no business at all in the affair. It is for you to judge. Do what you think right. I believe you have done right. Only I don't want to discuss it, and paw it over with talk. I am very much tired, dear'— gently now she spoke,—'and I hardly know what I say. If I speak crossly, don't mind it.' Cynthia did not reply at once. Then she said,—

'Do you think I might go with you, and help you? I might have done yesterday; and you say he has not opened my letter, so he has not heard as yet. And I was always fond of poor Osborne, in my way, you know.'

'I cannot tell; I have no right to say,' replied Molly, scarcely understanding Cynthia's motives, which, after all, were only impulses in this case. 'Papa would be able to judge; I think, perhaps, you had better not. But don't go by my opinion, I can only tell what I should wish to do in your place.'

'It was as much for your sake as any one's, Molly,' said Cynthia.

'Oh, then, don't! I am tired to-day with sitting up; but to-morrow I shall be all right; and I should not like it, if, for my sake, you came into the house at so solemn a time.'

'Very well!' said Cynthia, half-glad that her impulsive offer was declined; for, as she said, thinking to herself, 'It would have been awkward after all,' So Molly went back in the carriage alone, wondering how she should find the squire, wondering what discoveries he had made among Osborne's papers; and at what conviction he would have arrived.



CHAPTER LIII

UNLOOKED-FOR ARRIVALS

Robinson opened the door for Molly almost before the carriage had fairly drawn up at the Hall, and told her that the squire had been very anxious for her return, and had more than once sent him to an upstairs window, from which a glimpse of the hill-road between Hollingford and Hamley could be perceived, to know if the carriage was not yet in sight. Molly went into the drawing-room. The squire was standing in the middle of the floor, awaiting her; in fact, longing to go out and meet her, but restrained by a feeling of solemn etiquette, which prevented his moving about as usual in that house of mourning. He held a paper in his hands, which were trembling with excitement and emotion; and four or five open letters were strewed on a table near him.

'It's all true,' he began; 'she's his wife, and he's her husband—was her husband—that's the word for it—was! Poor lad! poor lad! it's cost him a deal. Pray God, it was not my fault. Read this, my dear. It's a certificate. It's all regular—Osborne Hamley to Marie-Aimee Scherer,— parish-church and all, and witnessed. Oh, dear!' He sate down in the nearest chair and groaned. Molly took a seat by him, and read the legal paper, the perusal of which was not needed to convince her of the fact of the marriage. She held it in her hand after she had finished reading it, waiting for the squire's next coherent words; for he kept talking to himself in broken sentences. 'Ay, ay! that comes o' temper, and crabbedness. She was the only one as could—and I've been worse since she was gone. Worse! worse! and see what it has come to. He was afraid of me—ay—afraid. That's the truth of it—afraid. And it made him keep all to himself, and care killed him. They may call it heart- disease—O my lad, my lad, I know better now; but it's too late— that's the sting of it—too late, too late!' He covered his face, and moved himself backwards and forwards till Molly could bear it no longer.

'There are some letters,' said she: 'may I read any of them?' At another time she would not have asked; but she was driven to it now by her impatience of the speechless grief of the old man.

'Ay, read 'em, read 'em,' said he. 'Maybe you can. I can only pick out a word here and there. I put 'em there for you to look at; and tell me what is in 'em.'

Molly's knowledge of written French of the present day was not so great as her knowledge of the French of the Memoires de Sully, and neither the spelling nor the writing of the letters was of the best; but she managed to translate into good enough colloquial English some innocent sentences of love, and submission to Osborne's will—as if his judgment was infallible,—and faith in his purposes;—little sentences in 'little language' that went home to the squire's heart. Perhaps if Molly had read French more easily she might not have translated them into such touching, homely, broken words. Here and there, there were expressions in English; these the hungry-hearted squire had read while waiting for Molly's return. Every time she stopped, he said, 'Go on.' He kept his face shaded, and only repeated those two words at every pause. She got up to find some more of Aimee's letters. In examining the papers, she came upon one in particular. 'Have you seen this, sir? This certificate of baptism' (reading aloud) 'of Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley, born June 21, 183-, child of Osborne Hamley and Marie-Aimee his wife—'

'Give it me,' said the squire, his voice breaking now, and stretching forth his eager hand. '"Roger," that's me, "Stephen," that's my poor old father: he died when he was not so old as I am; but I've always thought on him as very old. He was main and fond of Osborne, when he was quite a little one. It's good of the lad to have thought on my father Stephen. Ay! that was his name. And Osborne—Osborne Hamley! One Osborne Hamley lies dead on his bed—and t'other—t'other I have never seen, and never heard on till to-day. He must be called Osborne: Molly. There is a Roger—there's two for that matter; but one is a good-for- nothing old man; and there's never an Osborne any more, unless this little thing is called Osborne: we'll take him here, and get a nurse for him; and make his mother comfortable for life in her own country. I'll keep this, Molly. You're a good lass for finding it. Osborne Hamley! And if God will give me grace, he shall never hear a cross word from me—never. He shan't be afeard of me. Oh, my Osborne, my Osborne' (he burst out), 'do you know now how bitter and sore is my heart for every hard word as I ever spoke to you? Do you know now how I loved you—my boy—my boy?'

From the general tone of the letters Molly doubted if the mother would consent, so easily as the squire seemed to expect, to be parted from her child; the letters were not very wise, perhaps (though of this Molly never thought), but a heart full of love spoke tender words in every line. Still, it was not for Molly to talk of this doubt of hers just then; rather to dwell on the probable graces and charms of the little Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley. She let the squire exhaust himself in wondering as to the particulars of every event, helping him out in conjectures; and both of them, from their imperfect knowledge of possibilities, made the most curious, fantastic, and improbable guesses at the truth. And so that day passed over, and the night came.