CHAPTER XXXII.
COMING EVENTS.
Roger had turned over many plans in his mind, by which he thought
that he could obtain sufficient money for the purpose he desired to
accomplish. His careful grandfather, who had been a merchant in the
city, had so tied up the few thousands he had left to his daughter,
that although, in case of her death before her husband's, the latter
might enjoy the life-interest thereof, yet, in case of both their
deaths, their second son did not succeed to the property until he was
five-and-twenty; and if he died before that age, the money that would
then have been his went to one of his cousins on the maternal side.
In short, the old merchant had taken as many precautions about his
legacy as if it had been for tens, instead of units of thousands. Of
course Roger might have slipped through all these meshes by insuring
his life until the specified age; and, probably, if he had consulted
any lawyer, this course would have been suggested to him. But he
disliked taking any one into his confidence on the subject of
his father's want of ready money. He had obtained a copy of his
grandfather's will at Doctors' Commons, and he imagined that all the
contingencies involved in it would be patent to the light of nature
and common sense. He was a little mistaken in this, but not the less
resolved that money in some way he would have in order to fulfil his
promise to his father, and for the ulterior purpose of giving the
squire some daily interest to distract his thoughts from the regrets
and cares that were almost weakening his mind. It was "Roger Hamley,
senior wrangler and Fellow of Trinity, to the highest bidder, no
matter what honest employment," and presently it came down to "any
bidder at all."
Another perplexity and distress at this time weighed upon Roger.
Osborne, heir to the estate, was going to have a child. The Hamley
property was entailed on "heirs male born in lawful wedlock." Was the
"wedlock" lawful? Osborne never seemed to doubt that it was--never
seemed, in fact, to think twice about it. And if he, the husband, did
not, how much less did Aime, the trustful wife? Yet who could tell
how much misery any shadows of illegality might cast into the future?
One evening Roger, sitting by the languid, careless, dilettante
Osborne, began to question him as to the details of the marriage.
Osborne knew instinctively at what Roger was aiming. It was not that
he did not desire perfect legality in justice to his wife; it was
that he was so indisposed at the time that he hated to be bothered.
It was something like the refrain of Gray's Scandinavian Prophetess:
"Leave me, leave me to repose."
"But do try and tell me how you managed it."
"How tiresome you are, Roger!" put in Osborne.
"Well, I daresay I am. Go on!"
"I've told you Morrison married us. You remember old Morrison at
Trinity?"
"Yes; as good and blunder-headed a fellow as ever lived."
"Well, he's taken orders; and the examination for priest's orders
fatigued him so much that he got his father to give him a hundred or
two for a tour on the Continent. He meant to get to Rome, because he
heard that there were such pleasant winters there. So he turned up at
Metz in August."
"I don't see why."
"No more did he. He never was great in geography, you know; and
somehow he thought that Metz, pronounced French fashion, must be on
the road to Rome. Some one had told him so in fun. However, it was
very well for me that I met with him there, for I was determined to
be married, and that without loss of time."
"But Aime is a Catholic?"
"That's true! but you see I am not. You don't suppose I would do her
any wrong, Roger?" asked Osborne, sitting up in his lounging-chair,
and speaking rather indignantly to Roger, his face suddenly flushing
red.
"No! I'm sure you would not mean it; but, you see, there's a child
coming, and this estate is entailed on 'heirs-male.' Now, I want
to know if the marriage is legal or not? and it seems to me it's a
ticklish question."
"Oh!" said Osborne, falling back into repose, "if that's all, I
suppose you're next heir-male, and I can trust you as I can myself.
You know my marriage is _bon fide_ in intention, and I believe
it to be legal in fact. We went over to Strasbourg; Aime picked
up a friend--a good middle-aged Frenchwoman--who served half
as bridesmaid, half as chaperone, and then we went before the
mayor--prfet--what do you call them? I think Morrison rather enjoyed
the spree. I signed all manner of papers in the prefecture; I did not
read them over, for fear lest I could not sign them conscientiously.
It was the safest plan. Aime kept trembling so I thought she would
faint; and then we went off to the nearest English chaplaincy,
Carlsruhe, and the chaplain was away, so Morrison easily got the loan
of the chapel, and we were married the next day."
"But surely some registration or certificate was necessary?"
"Morrison said he would undertake all those forms; and he ought to
know his own business. I know I tipped him pretty well for the job."
"You must be married again," said Roger, after a pause, "and
that before the child is born. Have you got a certificate of the
marriage?"
"I daresay Morrison has got it somewhere. But I believe I'm legally
married according to the laws both of England and France; I really
do, old fellow. I've got the prfet's papers somewhere."
"Never mind! you shall be married again in England. Aime goes to the
Roman Catholic chapel at Prestham, doesn't she?"
"Yes. She is so good I wouldn't disturb her in her religion for the
world."
"Then you shall be married both there and at the church of the parish
in which she lives as well," said Roger, decidedly.
"It's a great deal of trouble, unnecessary trouble, and unnecessary
expense, I should say," said Osborne. "Why can't you leave well
alone? Neither Aime nor I are of the sort of stuff to turn
scoundrels and deny the legality of our marriage; and if the child
is a boy and my father dies, and I die, why I'm sure you'll do him
justice, as sure as I am of myself, old fellow!"
"But if I die into the bargain? Make a hecatomb of the present
Hamleys all at once, while you are about it. Who succeeds as
heir-male?"
Osborne thought for a moment. "One of the Irish Hamleys, I suppose.
I fancy they are needy chaps. Perhaps you're right. But what need to
have such gloomy forebodings?"
"The law makes one have foresight in such affairs," said Roger. "So
I'll go down to Aime next week when I'm in town, and I'll make all
necessary arrangements before you come. I think you'll be happier if
it is all done."
"I shall be happier if I've a chance of seeing the little woman, that
I grant you. But what is taking you up to town? I wish I'd money to
run about like you, instead of being shut up for ever in this dull
old house."
Osborne was apt occasionally to contrast his position with Roger's
in a tone of complaint, forgetting that both were the results of
character, and also that out of his income Roger gave up so large
a portion for the maintenance of his brother's wife. But if this
ungenerous thought of Osborne's had been set clearly before his
conscience, he would have smote his breast and cried "Mea culpa" with
the best of them; it was only that he was too indolent to keep an
unassisted conscience.
"I shouldn't have thought of going up," said Roger, reddening as if
he had been accused of spending another's money instead of his own,
"if I hadn't had to go up on business. Lord Hollingford has written
for me; he knows my great wish for employment, and has heard of
something which he considers suitable; there's his letter if you care
to read it. But it does not tell anything definitely."
Osborne read the letter and returned it to Roger. After a moment or
two of silence he said,--"Why do you want money? Are we taking too
much from you? It's a great shame of me; but what can I do? Only
suggest a career for me, and I'll follow it to-morrow." He spoke as
if Roger had been reproaching him.
"My dear fellow, don't get those notions into your head! I must
do something for myself sometimes, and I've been on the look-out.
Besides, I want my father to go on with his drainage; it would do
good both to his health and his spirits. If I can advance any part of
the money requisite, he and you shall pay me interest until you can
return the capital."
"Roger, you're the providence of the family," exclaimed Osborne,
suddenly struck by admiration at his brother's conduct, and
forgetting to contrast it with his own.
So Roger went up to London and Osborne followed him, and for two or
three weeks the Gibsons saw nothing of the brothers. But as wave
succeeds to wave, so interest succeeds to interest. "The family,"
as they were called, came down for their autumn sojourn at the
Towers, and again the house was full of visitors, and the Towers'
servants, and carriages, and liveries were seen in the two streets of
Hollingford, just as they might have been seen for scores of autumns
past.
So runs the round of life from day to day. Mrs. Gibson found the
chances of intercourse with the Towers rather more personally
exciting than Roger's visits, or the rarer calls of Osborne Hamley.
Cynthia had an old antipathy to the great family who had made so much
of her mother and so little of her; and whom she considered as in
some measure the cause why she had seen so little of her mother in
the days when the little girl had craved for love and found none.
Moreover, Cynthia missed her slave, although she did not care for
Roger one thousandth part of what he did for her; yet she had found
it not unpleasant to have a man whom she thoroughly respected, and
whom men in general respected, the subject of her eye, the glad
ministrant to each scarce-spoken wish, a person in whose sight
all her words were pearls or diamonds, all her actions heavenly
graciousness, and in whose thoughts she reigned supreme. She had
no modest unconsciousness about her; and yet she was not vain.
She knew of all this worship; and when from circumstances she no
longer received it, she missed it. The Earl and the Countess, Lord
Hollingford and Lady Harriet, lords and ladies in general, liveries,
dresses, bags of game, and rumours of riding parties, were as nothing
to her compared to Roger's absence. And yet she did not love him.
No, she did not love him. Molly knew that Cynthia did not love him.
Molly grew angry with her many and many a time as the conviction of
this fact was forced upon her. Molly did not know her own feelings;
Roger had no overwhelming interest in what they might be; while his
very life-breath seemed to depend on what Cynthia felt and thought.
Therefore Molly had keen insight into her "sister's" heart; and she
knew that Cynthia did not love Roger. Molly could have cried with
passionate regret at the thought of the unvalued treasure lying at
Cynthia's feet; and it would have been a merely unselfish regret.
It was the old fervid tenderness: "Do not wish for the moon, O my
darling, for I cannot give it thee." Cynthia's love was the moon
Roger yearned for; and Molly saw that it was far away and out of
reach, else would she have strained her heart-cords to give it to
Roger.
"I am his sister," she would say to herself. "That old bond is not
done away with, though he is too much absorbed by Cynthia to speak
about it just now. His mother called me 'Fanny;' it was almost like
an adoption. I must wait and watch, and see if I can do anything for
my brother."
One day Lady Harriet came to call on the Gibsons, or rather on Mrs.
Gibson, for the latter retained her old jealousy if any one else
in Hollingford was supposed to be on intimate terms at the great
house, or in the least acquainted with their plans. Mr. Gibson might
possibly know as much, but then he was professionally bound to
secrecy. Out of the house she considered Mr. Preston as her rival,
and he was aware that she did so, and delighted in teasing her by
affecting a knowledge of family plans and details of affairs of which
she was ignorant. Indoors she was jealous of the fancy Lady Harriet
had evidently taken for her step-daughter, and she contrived to place
quiet obstacles in the way of a too frequent intercourse between the
two. These obstacles were not unlike the shield of the knight in
the old story; only instead of the two sides presented to the two
travellers approaching it from opposite quarters, one of which was
silver, and one of which was gold, Lady Harriet saw the smooth and
shining yellow radiance, while poor Molly only perceived a dull and
heavy lead. To Lady Harriet it was "Molly is gone out; she will be so
sorry to miss you, but she was obliged to go to see some old friends
of her mother's whom she ought not to neglect; as I said to her,
constancy is everything. It is Sterne, I think, who says, 'Thine own
and thy mother's friends forsake not.' But, dear Lady Harriet, you'll
stop till she comes home, won't you? I know how fond you are of her;
in fact" (with a little surface playfulness) "I sometimes say you
come more to see her than your poor old Clare."
To Molly it had previously been,--
"Lady Harriet is coming here this morning. I can't have any one else
coming in. Tell Maria to say I'm not at home. Lady Harriet has always
so much to tell me. Dear Lady Harriet! I've known all her secrets
since she was twelve years old. You two girls must keep out of the
way. Of course she'll ask for you, out of common civility; but
you would only interrupt us if you came in, as you did the other
day;"--now addressing Molly--"I hardly like to say so, but I thought
it was very forward."
"Maria told me she had asked for me," put in Molly, simply.
"Very forward indeed!" continued Mrs. Gibson, taking no further
notice of the interruption, except to strengthen the words to which
Molly's little speech had been intended as a correction.
"I think this time I must secure her ladyship from the chances of
such an intrusion, by taking care that you are out of the house,
Molly. You had better go to the Holly Farm, and speak about those
damsons I ordered, and which have never been sent."
"I'll go," said Cynthia. "It's far too long a walk for Molly; she's
had a bad cold, and isn't as strong as she was a fortnight ago. I
delight in long walks. If you want Molly out of the way, mamma, send
her to the Miss Brownings'--they are always glad to see her."
"I never said I wanted Molly out of the way, Cynthia," replied Mrs.
Gibson. "You always put things in such an exaggerated--I should
almost say, so coarse a manner. I am sure, Molly, my love, you
could never have so misunderstood me; it is only on Lady Harriet's
account."
"I don't think I can walk as far as the Holly Farm; papa would take
the message; Cynthia need not go."
"Well! I'm the last person in the world to tax any one's strength;
I'd sooner never see damson preserve again. Suppose you do go and see
Miss Browning; you can pay her a nice long call, you know she likes
that; and ask after Miss Phoebe's cold from me, you know. They were
friends of your mother's, my dear, and I would not have you break off
old friendships for the world. 'Constancy above everything' is my
motto, as you know, and the memory of the dead ought always to be
cherished."
"Now, mamma, where am I to go?" asked Cynthia. "Though Lady Harriet
doesn't care for me as much as she does for Molly--indeed, quite the
contrary I should say--yet she might ask after me, and I had better
be safely out of the way."
"True!" said Mrs. Gibson, meditatively, yet unconscious of any satire
in Cynthia's speech.
"She is much less likely to ask for you, my dear: I almost think
you might remain in the house, or you might go to the Holly Farm;
I really do want the damsons; or you might stay here in the
dining-room, you know, so as to be ready to arrange lunch prettily,
if she does take a fancy to stay for it. She is very fanciful,
is dear Lady Harriet! I would not like her to think we made any
difference in our meals because she stayed. 'Simple elegance,' as I
tell her, 'always is what we aim at.' But still you could put out the
best service, and arrange some flowers, and ask cook what there is
for dinner that she could send us for lunch, and make it all look
pretty, and impromptu, and natural. I think you had better stay at
home, Cynthia, and then you could fetch Molly from Miss Brownings' in
the afternoon, you know, and you two could take a walk together."
"After Lady Harriet was fairly gone! I understand, mamma. Off with
you, Molly. Make haste, or Lady Harriet may come and ask for you as
well as mamma. I'll take care and forget where you are going to, so
that no one shall learn from me where you are, and I'll answer for
mamma's loss of memory."
"Child! what nonsense you talk; you quite confuse me with being so
silly," said Mrs. Gibson, fluttered and annoyed as she usually was
with the Lilliputian darts Cynthia flung at her. She had recourse to
her accustomed feckless piece of retaliation--bestowing some favour
on Molly; and this did not hurt Cynthia one whit.
"Molly, darling, there's a very cold wind, though it looks so fine.
You had better put on my Indian shawl; and it will look so pretty,
too, on your grey gown--scarlet and grey; it's not everybody I would
lend it to, but you're so careful."
"Thank you," said Molly: and she left Mrs. Gibson in careless
uncertainty as to whether her offer would be accepted or not.
Lady Harriet was sorry to miss Molly, as she was fond of the
girl; but as she perfectly agreed with Mrs. Gibson's truism about
"constancy" and "old friends," she saw no occasion for saying any
more about the affair, but sat down in a little low chair with her
feet on the fender. This said fender was made of bright, bright
steel, and was strictly tabooed to all household and plebeian feet;
indeed the position, if they assumed it, was considered low-bred and
vulgar.
"That's right, dear Lady Harriet! you can't think what a pleasure it
is to me to welcome you at my own fireside, into my humble home."
"Humble! now, Clare, that's a little bit of nonsense, begging your
pardon. I don't call this pretty little drawing-room a bit of a
'humble home.' It's as full of comforts, and of pretty things too, as
any room of its size can be."
"Ah! how small you must feel it! even I had to reconcile myself to it
at first."
"Well! perhaps your schoolroom was larger, but remember how bare it
was, how empty of anything but deal tables, and forms, and mats. Oh,
indeed, Clare, I quite agree with mamma, who always says you have
done very well for yourself; and Mr. Gibson too! What an agreeable,
well-informed man!"
"Yes, he is," said his wife, slowly, as if she did not like to
relinquish her rle of a victim to circumstances quite immediately.
"He is very agreeable, very; only we see so little of him; and of
course he comes home tired and hungry, and not inclined to talk to
his own family, and apt to go to sleep."
"Come, come!" said Lady Harriet, "I'm going to have my turn now.
We've had the complaint of a doctor's wife, now hear the moans of a
peer's daughter. Our house is so overrun with visitors! and literally
to-day I have come to you for a little solitude."
"Solitude!" exclaimed Mrs. Gibson. "Would you rather be alone?"
slightly aggrieved.
"No, you dear silly woman; my solitude requires a listener, to
whom I may say, 'How sweet is solitude!' But I am tired of the
responsibility of entertaining. Papa is so open-hearted, he asks
every friend he meets with to come and pay us a visit. Mamma is
really a great invalid, but she does not choose to give up her
reputation for good health, having always considered illness a want
of self-control. So she gets wearied and worried by a crowd of people
who are all of them open-mouthed for amusement of some kind; just
like a brood of fledglings in a nest; so I have to be parent-bird,
and pop morsels into their yellow leathery bills, to find them
swallowed down before I can think of where to find the next. Oh, it's
'entertaining' in the largest, literalist, dreariest sense of the
word. So I have told a few lies this morning, and come off here for
quietness and the comfort of complaining!"
Lady Harriet threw herself back in her chair, and yawned; Mrs. Gibson
took one of her ladyship's hands in a soft sympathizing manner, and
murmured,--
"Poor Lady Harriet!" and then she purred affectionately.
After a pause Lady Harriet started up and said--"I used to take you
as my arbiter of morals when I was a little girl. Tell me, do you
think it wrong to tell lies?"
"Oh, my dear! how can you ask such questions?--of course it is very
wrong,--very wicked indeed, I think I may say. But I know you were
only joking when you said you had told lies."
"No, indeed, I wasn't. I told as plump fat lies as you would wish
to hear. I said I 'was obliged to go into Hollingford on business,'
when the truth was there was no obligation in the matter, only an
insupportable desire of being free from my visitors for an hour or
two, and my only business was to come here, and yawn, and complain,
and lounge at my leisure. I really think I'm unhappy at having told a
story, as children express it."
"But, my dear Lady Harriet," said Mrs. Gibson, a little puzzled as to
the exact meaning of the words that were trembling on her tongue, "I
am sure you thought that you meant what you said, when you said it."
"No, I didn't," put in Lady Harriet.
"And besides, if you didn't, it was the fault of the tiresome people
who drove you into such straits--yes, it was certainly their fault,
not yours--and then you know the conventions of society--ah, what
trammels they are!"
Lady Harriet was silent for a minute or two; then she said,--"Tell
me, Clare; you've told lies sometimes, haven't you?"
"Lady Harriet! I think you might have known me better; but I know you
don't mean it, dear."
"Yes, I do. You must have told white lies, at any rate. How did you
feel after them?"
"I should have been miserable if I ever had. I should have died of
self-reproach. 'The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth,' has always seemed to me such a fine passage. But then I have
so much that is unbending in my nature, and in our sphere of life
there are so few temptations. If we are humble, we are also simple,
and unshackled by etiquette."
"Then you blame me very much? If somebody else will blame me, I
sha'n't be so unhappy at what I said this morning."
"I am sure I never blamed you, not in my innermost heart, dear Lady
Harriet. Blame you, indeed! That would be presumption in me."
"I think I shall set up a confessor! and it sha'n't be you, Clare,
for you have always been only too indulgent to me."
After a pause she said,--"Can you give me some lunch, Clare? I don't
mean to go home till three. My 'business' will take me till then, as
the people at the Towers are duly informed."
"Certainly. I shall be delighted! but you know we are very simple in
our habits."
"Oh, I only want a little bread-and-butter, and perhaps a slice of
cold meat--you must not give yourself any trouble, Clare--perhaps you
dine now? let me sit down just like one of your family."
"Yes, you shall; I won't make any alteration;--it will be so pleasant
to have you sharing our family meal, dear Lady Harriet. But we dine
late, we only lunch now. How low the fire is getting; I really am
forgetting everything in the pleasure of this tte--tte!"
So she rang twice; with great distinctness, and with a long pause
between the rings. Maria brought in coals.
But the signal was as well understood by Cynthia as the "Hall of
Apollo" was by the servants of Lucullus. The brace of partridges that
were to have been for the late dinner were instantly put down to the
fire; and the prettiest china brought out, and the table decked with
flowers and fruit, arranged with all Cynthia's usual dexterity and
taste. So that when the meal was announced, and Lady Harriet entered
the room, she could not but think her hostess's apologies had been
quite unnecessary; and be more and more convinced that Clare had
done very well for herself. Cynthia now joined the party, pretty
and elegant as she always was; but somehow she did not take Lady
Harriet's fancy; she only noticed her on account of her being her
mother's daughter. Her presence made the conversation more general,
and Lady Harriet gave out several pieces of news, none of them of any
great importance to her, but as what had been talked about by the
circle of visitors assembled at the Towers.
"Lord Hollingford ought to have been with us," she said, amongst
other things; "but he is obliged, or fancies himself obliged, which
is all the same thing, to stay in town about this Crichton legacy!"
"A legacy? To Lord Hollingford? I am so glad!"
"Don't be in a hurry to be glad! It's nothing for him but trouble.
Didn't you hear of that rich eccentric Mr. Crichton, who died
some time ago, and--fired by the example of Lord Bridgewater,
I suppose--left a sum of money in the hands of trustees, of
whom my brother is one, to send out a man with a thousand fine
qualifications, to make a scientific voyage, with a view to bringing
back specimens of the fauna of distant lands, and so forming the
nucleus of a museum which is to be called the Crichton Museum, and so
perpetuate the founder's name. Such various forms does man's vanity
take! Sometimes it stimulates philanthropy; sometimes a love of
science!"
"It seems to me a very laudable and useful object, I am sure," said
Mrs. Gibson, safely.
"I daresay it is, taking it from the public-good view. But it's
rather tiresome to us privately, for it keeps Hollingford in town--or
between it and Cambridge--and each place as dull and empty as can be,
just when we want him down at the Towers. The thing ought to have
been decided long ago, and there's some danger of the legacy lapsing.
The two other trustees have run away to the Continent, feeling, as
they say, the utmost confidence in him, but in reality shirking their
responsibilities. However, I believe he likes it, so I ought not to
grumble. He thinks he is going to be very successful in the choice of
his man--and he belongs to this county, too,--young Hamley of Hamley,
if he can only get his college to let him go, for he is a Fellow of
Trinity, senior wrangler or something; and they're not so foolish as
to send their crack man to be eaten up by lions and tigers!"
"It must be Roger Hamley!" exclaimed Cynthia, her eyes brightening,
and her cheeks flushing.
"He's not the eldest son; he can scarcely be called Hamley of
Hamley!" said Mrs. Gibson.
"Hollingford's man is a Fellow of Trinity, as I said before."
"Then it is Mr. Roger Hamley," said Cynthia; "and he's up in London
about some business! What news for Molly when she comes home!"
"Why, what has Molly to do with it?" asked Lady Harriet. "Is--?" and
she looked into Mrs. Gibson's face for an answer. Mrs. Gibson in
reply gave an intelligent and very expressive glance at Cynthia, who
however did not perceive it.
"Oh, no! not at all,"--and Mrs. Gibson nodded a little at her
daughter, as much as to say, "If any one, that."
Lady Harriet began to look at the pretty Miss Kirkpatrick with fresh
interest; her brother had spoken in such a manner of this young
Mr. Hamley that every one connected with the phoenix was worthy of
observation. Then, as if the mention of Molly's name had brought her
afresh into her mind, Lady Harriet said,--"And where is Molly all
this time? I should like to see my little mentor. I hear she is very
much grown since those days."
"Oh! when she once gets gossiping with the Miss Brownings, she never
knows when to come home," said Mrs. Gibson.
"The Miss Brownings? Oh! I'm so glad you named them! I'm very fond of
them. Pecksy and Flapsy; I may call them so in Molly's absence. I'll
go and see them before I go home, and then perhaps I shall see my
dear little Molly too. Do you know, Clare, I've quite taken a fancy
to that girl!"
So Mrs. Gibson, after all her precautions, had to submit to Lady
Harriet's leaving her half-an-hour earlier than she otherwise would
have done in order to "make herself common" (as Mrs. Gibson expressed
it) by calling on the Miss Brownings.
But Molly had left before Lady Harriet arrived.
Molly went the long walk to the Holly Farm, to order the damsons,
out of a kind of penitence. She had felt conscious of anger at being
sent out of the house by such a palpable manoeuvre as that which
her stepmother had employed. Of course she did not meet Cynthia, so
she went alone along the pretty lanes, with grassy sides and high
hedge-banks not at all in the style of modern agriculture. At first
she made herself uncomfortable with questioning herself as to how
far it was right to leave unnoticed the small domestic failings--the
webs, the distortions of truth which had prevailed in their household
ever since her father's second marriage. She knew that very often
she longed to protest, but did not do it, from the desire of sparing
her father any discord; and she saw by his face that he, too, was
occasionally aware of certain things that gave him pain, as showing
that his wife's standard of conduct was not as high as he would have
liked. It was a wonder to Molly whether this silence was right or
wrong. With a girl's want of toleration, and want of experience to
teach her the force of circumstances, and of temptation, she had
often been on the point of telling her stepmother some forcible home
truths. But, possibly, her father's example of silence, and often
some piece of kindness on Mrs. Gibson's part (for after her way, and
when in a good temper, she was very kind to Molly), made her hold her
tongue.
That night at dinner, Mrs. Gibson recounted the conversation between
herself and Lady Harriet, giving it a very strong individual
colouring, as was her wont, and telling nearly the whole of what had
passed, although implying that there was a great deal said which was
so purely confidential, that she was bound in honour not to repeat
it. Her three auditors listened to her without interrupting her
much--indeed, without bestowing extreme attention on what she was
saying, until she came to the fact of Lord Hollingford's absence in
London, and the reason for it.
"Roger Hamley going off on a scientific expedition!" exclaimed Mr.
Gibson, suddenly awakened into vivacity.
"Yes. At least it is not settled finally; but as Lord Hollingford
is the only trustee who takes any interest--and being Lord Cumnor's
son--it is next to certain."
"I think I must have a voice in the matter," said Mr. Gibson; and he
relapsed into silence, keeping his ears open, however, henceforward.
"How long will he be away?" asked Cynthia. "We shall miss him sadly."
Molly's lips formed an acquiescing "yes" to this remark, but no sound
was heard. There was a buzzing in her ears as if the others were
going on with the conversation, but the words they uttered seemed
indistinct and blurred; they were merely conjectures, and did not
interfere with the one great piece of news. To the rest of the party
she appeared to be eating her dinner as usual, and, if she were
silent, there was one listener the more to Mrs. Gibson's stream of
prattle, and Mr. Gibson's and Cynthia's remarks.