CHAPTER XLV.

CONFIDENCES.

All the rest of that day Molly was depressed and not well. Having

anything to conceal was so unusual--almost so unprecedented a

circumstance with her that it preyed upon her in every way.

It was a nightmare that she could not shake off; she did so wish to

forget it all, and yet every little occurrence seemed to remind her

of it. The next morning's post brought several letters; one from

Roger for Cynthia, and Molly, letterless herself, looked at Cynthia

as she read it, with wistful sadness. It appeared to Molly as though

Cynthia should have no satisfaction in these letters, until she had

told him what was her exact position with Mr. Preston; yet Cynthia

was colouring and dimpling up as she always did at any pretty words

of praise, or admiration, or love. But Molly's thoughts and Cynthia's

reading were both interrupted by a little triumphant sound from Mrs.

Gibson, as she pushed a letter she had just received to her husband,

with a--

"There! I must say I expected that!" Then, turning to Cynthia, she

explained--"It is a letter from uncle Kirkpatrick, love. So kind,

wishing you to go and stay with them, and help them to cheer up

Helen; poor Helen! I am afraid she is very far from well. But

we could not have had her here, without disturbing dear papa in

his consulting-room; and, though I could have relinquished my

dressing-room--he--well! so I said in my letter how you were

grieved--you above all of us, because you are such a friend of

Helen's, you know--and how you longed to be of use,--as I am sure you

do--and so now they want you to go up directly, for Helen has quite

set her heart upon it."

Cynthia's eyes sparkled. "I shall like going," said she--"all but

leaving you, Molly," she added, in a lower tone, as if suddenly

smitten with some compunction.

"Can you be ready to go by the 'Bang-up' to-night?" said Mr. Gibson;

"for, curiously enough, after more than twenty years of quiet

practice at Hollingford, I am summoned up to-day for the first time

to a consultation in London to-morrow. I'm afraid Lady Cumnor is

worse, my dear."

"You don't say so? Poor dear lady! What a shock it is to me! I'm so

glad I've had some breakfast. I could not have eaten anything."

"Nay, I only say she is worse. With her complaint, being worse may be

only a preliminary to being better. Don't take my words for more than

their literal meaning."

"Thank you. How kind and reassuring dear papa always is! About your

gowns, Cynthia?"

"Oh, they're all right, mamma, thank you. I shall be quite ready by

four o'clock. Molly, will you come with me and help me to pack? I

wanted to speak to you, dear," said she, as soon as they had gone

upstairs. "It is such a relief to get away from a place haunted by

that man; but I'm afraid you thought I was glad to leave you; and

indeed I am not." There was a little flavour of "protesting too much"

about this; but Molly did not perceive it. She only said, "Indeed

I did not. I know from my own feelings how you must dislike meeting

a man in public in a different manner from what you have done in

private. I shall try not to see Mr. Preston again for a long, long

time, I'm sure. But, Cynthia, you haven't told me one word out of

Roger's letter. Please, how is he? Has he quite got over his attack

of fever?"

"Yes, quite. He writes in very good spirits. A great deal about birds

and beasts, as usual, habits of natives, and things of that kind. You

may read from there" (indicating a place in the letter) "to there, if

you can. And I'll tell you what, I'll trust you with it, Molly, while

I pack; and that shows my sense of your honour--not but what you

might read it all, only you'd find the love-making dull; but make a

little account of where he is, and what he is doing, date, and that

sort of thing, and send it to his father."

Molly took the letter down without a word, and began to copy it at

the writing-table; often reading over what she was allowed to read;

often pausing, her cheek on her hand, her eyes on the letter, and

letting her imagination rove to the writer, and all the scenes in

which she had either seen him herself, or in which her fancy had

painted him. She was startled from her meditations by Cynthia's

sudden entrance into the drawing-room, looking the picture of glowing

delight. "No one here? What a blessing! Ah, Miss Molly, you are more

eloquent than you believe yourself. Look here!" holding up a large

full envelope, and then quickly replacing it in her pocket, as if

she was afraid of being seen. "What's the matter, sweet one?" coming

up and caressing Molly. "Is it worrying itself over that letter?

Why, don't you see these are my very own horrible letters, that I

am going to burn directly, that Mr. Preston has had the grace to

send me, thanks to you, little Molly--cuishla ma chree, pulse of

my heart,--the letters that have been hanging over my head like

somebody's sword for these two years?"

"Oh, I am so glad!" said Molly, rousing up a little. "I never thought

he would have sent them. He is better than I believed him. And now it

is all over. I am so glad! You quite think he means to give up all

claim over you by this, don't you, Cynthia?"

"He may claim, but I won't be claimed; and he has no proofs now. It

is the most charming relief; and I owe it all to you, you precious

little lady! Now there's only one thing more to be done; and if you

would but do it for me--" (coaxing and caressing while she asked the

question).

"Oh, Cynthia, don't ask me; I cannot do any more. You don't know how

sick I go when I think of yesterday, and Mr. Sheepshanks' look."

"It is only a very little thing. I won't burden your conscience with

telling you how I got my letters, but it is not through a person

I can trust with money; and I must force him to take back his

twenty-three pounds odd shillings. I have put it together at the rate

of five per cent., and it's sealed up. Oh, Molly, I should go off

with such a light heart if you would only try to get it safely to

him. It's the last thing; there would be no immediate hurry, you

know. You might meet him by chance in a shop, in the street, even at

a party--and if you only had it with you in your pocket, there would

be nothing so easy."

Molly was silent. "Papa would give it to him. There would be no harm

in that. I would tell him he must ask no questions as to what it

was."

"Very well," said Cynthia, "have it your own way. I think my way is

the best: for if any of this affair comes out-- But you've done a

great deal for me already, and I won't blame you now for declining to

do any more!"

"I do so dislike having these underhand dealings with him," pleaded

Molly.

"Underhand! just simply giving him a letter from me! If I left a note

for Miss Browning, should you dislike giving it to her?"

"You know that's very different. I could do it openly."

"And yet there might be writing in that; and there wouldn't be a

line with the money. It would only be the winding-up--the honourable,

honest winding-up of an affair which has worried me for years. But do

as you like!"

"Give it me!" said Molly. "I will try."

"There's a darling! You can but try; and if you can't give it to him

in private, without getting yourself into a scrape, why, keep it till

I come back again. He shall have it then, whether he will or no!"

Molly looked forward to her two days alone with Mrs. Gibson with very

different anticipations from those with which she had welcomed the

similar intercourse with her father. In the first place, there was no

accompanying the travellers to the inn from which the coach started;

leave-taking in the market-place was quite out of the bounds of Mrs.

Gibson's sense of propriety. Besides this, it was a gloomy, rainy

evening, and candles had to be brought in at an unusually early hour.

There would be no break for six hours--no music, no reading; but

the two ladies would sit at their worsted work, pattering away at

small-talk, with not even the usual break of dinner; for, to suit

the requirements of those who were leaving, they had already dined

early. But Mrs. Gibson really meant to make Molly happy, and tried to

be an agreeable companion, only Molly was not well, and was uneasy

about many apprehended cares and troubles--and at such hours of

indisposition as she was then passing through, apprehensions take

the shape of certainties, lying await in our paths. Molly would have

given a good deal to have shaken off all these feelings, unusual

enough to her; but the very house and furniture, and rain-blurred

outer landscape, seemed steeped with unpleasant associations, most of

them dating from the last few days.

"You and I must go on the next journey, I think, my dear," said Mrs.

Gibson, almost chiming in with Molly's wish that she could get away

from Hollingford into some new air and life, for a week or two. "We

have been stay-at-homes for a long time, and variety of scene is so

desirable for the young! But I think the travellers will be wishing

themselves at home by this nice bright fireside. 'There's no place

like home,' as the poet says. 'Mid pleasures and palaces although I

may roam,' it begins, and it's both very pretty and very true. It's a

great blessing to have such a dear little home as this, is not it,

Molly?"

"Yes," said Molly, rather drearily, having something of the "toujours

perdrix" feeling at the moment. If she could but have gone away with

her father, just for two days, how pleasant it would have been.

"To be sure, love, it would be very nice for you and me to go a

little journey all by ourselves. You and I. No one else. If it

were not such miserable weather we would have gone off on a little

impromptu tour. I've been longing for something of the kind for some

weeks; but we live such a restricted kind of life here! I declare

sometimes I get quite sick of the very sight of the chairs and tables

that I know so well. And one misses the others too! It seems so flat

and deserted without them!"

"Yes! We are very forlorn to-night; but I think it's partly owing to

the weather!"

"Nonsense, dear. I can't have you giving in to the silly fancy of

being affected by weather. Poor dear Mr. Kirkpatrick used to say, 'a

cheerful heart makes its own sunshine.' He would say it to me, in

his pretty way, whenever I was a little low--for I am a complete

barometer--you may really judge of the state of the weather by my

spirits, I have always been such a sensitive creature! It is well

for Cynthia that she does not inherit it; I don't think her easily

affected in any way, do you?"

Molly thought for a minute or two, and then replied--"No, she

certainly is not easily affected--not deeply affected perhaps I

should say."

"Many girls, for instance, would have been touched by the admiration

she excited--I may say the attentions she received when she was at

her uncle's last summer."

"At Mr. Kirkpatrick's?"

"Yes. There was Mr. Henderson, that young lawyer; that's to say, he

is studying law, but he has a good private fortune and is likely

to have more, so he can only be what I call playing at law. Mr.

Henderson was over head and ears in love with her. It is not my

fancy, although I grant mothers are partial: both Mr. and Mrs.

Kirkpatrick noticed it; and in one of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's letters,

she said that poor Mr. Henderson was going into Switzerland for the

long vacation, doubtless to try and forget Cynthia; but she really

believed he would find it only 'dragging at each remove a lengthening

chain.' I thought it such a refined quotation, and altogether worded

so prettily. You must know aunt Kirkpatrick some day, Molly, my love;

she is what I call a woman of a truly elegant mind."

"I can't help thinking it was a pity that Cynthia did not tell them

of her engagement."

"It is not an engagement, my dear! How often must I tell you that?"

"But what am I to call it?"

"I don't see why you need to call it anything. Indeed, I don't

understand what you mean by 'it.' You should always try to express

yourself intelligibly. It really is one of the first principles

of the English language. In fact, philosophers might ask what is

language given us for at all, if it is not that we may make our

meaning understood?"

"But there is something between Cynthia and Roger; they are more to

each other than I am to Osborne, for instance. What am I to call it?"

"You should not couple your name with that of any unmarried young

man; it is so difficult to teach you delicacy, child. Perhaps one may

say there is a peculiar relation between dear Cynthia and Roger, but

it is very difficult to characterize it; I have no doubt that is the

reason she shrinks from speaking about it. For, between ourselves,

Molly, I really sometimes think it will come to nothing. He is

so long away, and, privately speaking, Cynthia is not very, very

constant. I once knew her very much taken before--that little affair

is quite gone by; and she was very civil to Mr. Henderson, in her

way; I fancy she inherits it, for when I was a girl I was beset by

lovers, and could never find in my heart to shake them off. You have

not heard dear papa say anything of the old Squire, or dear Osborne,

have you? It seems so long since we have heard or seen anything of

Osborne. But he must be quite well, I think, or we should have heard

of it."

"I believe he is quite well. Some one said the other day that they

had met him riding--it was Mrs. Goodenough, now I remember--and that

he was looking stronger than he had done for years."

"Indeed! I am truly glad to hear it. I always was fond of Osborne;

and, do you know, I never really took to Roger? I respected him

and all that, of course; but to compare him with Mr. Henderson! Mr.

Henderson is so handsome and well-bred, and gets all his gloves from

Houbigant!"

It was true that they had not seen anything of Osborne Hamley for

a long time; but, as it often happens, just after they had been

speaking about him he appeared. It was on the day following Mr.

Gibson's departure that Mrs. Gibson received one of the notes, not

so common now as formerly, from the family in town, asking her to go

over to the Towers, and find a book, or a manuscript, or something or

other that Lady Cumnor wanted with all an invalid's impatience. It

was just the kind of employment she required for an amusement on a

gloomy day, and it put her into a good humour immediately. There was

a certain confidential importance about it, and it was a variety, and

it gave her the pleasant drive in a fly up the noble avenue, and the

sense of being the temporary mistress of all the grand rooms once so

familiar to her. She asked Molly to accompany her, out of an access

of kindness, but was not at all sorry when Molly excused herself and

preferred stopping at home. At eleven o'clock Mrs. Gibson was off,

all in her Sunday best (to use the servant's expression, which she

herself would so have contemned), well-dressed in order to impose on

the servants at the Towers, for there was no one else to see or to be

seen by.

"I shall not be at home until the afternoon, my dear! But I hope you

will not find it dull. I don't think you will, for you are something

like me, my love--never less alone than when alone, as one of the

great authors has justly expressed it."

Molly enjoyed the house to herself fully as much as Mrs. Gibson would

enjoy having the Towers to herself. She ventured on having her lunch

brought upon a tray into the drawing-room, so that she might eat

her sandwiches while she went on with her book. In the middle, Mr.

Osborne Hamley was announced. He came in, looking wretchedly ill in

spite of purblind Mrs. Goodenough's report of his healthy appearance.

"This call is not on you, Molly," said he, after the first greetings

were over. "I was in hopes I might have found your father at home;

I thought lunch-time was the best hour." He had sate down, as if

thoroughly glad of the rest, and fallen into a languid stooping

position, as if it had become so natural to him that no sense of what

were considered good manners sufficed to restrain him now.

"I hope you did not want to see him professionally?" said Molly,

wondering if she was wise in alluding to his health, yet urged to it

by her real anxiety.

"Yes, I did. I suppose I may help myself to a biscuit and a glass of

wine? No, don't ring for more. I could not eat it if it was here. But

I just want a mouthful; this is quite enough, thank you. When will

your father be back?"

"He was summoned up to London. Lady Cumnor is worse. I fancy there is

some operation going on; but I don't know. He will be back to-morrow

night."

"Very well. Then I must wait. Perhaps I shall be better by that time.

I think it's half fancy; but I should like your father to tell me so.

He will laugh at me, I daresay; but I don't think I shall mind that.

He always is severe on fanciful patients, isn't he, Molly?"

Molly thought that if he saw Osborne's looks just then he would

hardly think him fanciful, or be inclined to be severe. But she only

said,--"Papa enjoys a joke at everything, you know. It is a relief

after all the sorrow he sees."

"Very true. There is a great deal of sorrow in the world. I don't

think it's a very happy place after all. So Cynthia is gone to

London?" he added, after a pause. "I think I should like to have seen

her again. Poor old Roger! He loves her very dearly, Molly," he said.

Molly hardly knew how to answer him in all this; she was so struck by

the change in both voice and manner.

"Mamma has gone to the Towers," she began, at length. "Lady Cumnor

wanted several things that mamma only can find. She will be sorry to

miss you. We were speaking of you only yesterday, and she said how

long it was since we had seen you."

"I think I've grown careless; I've often felt so weary and ill that

it was all I could do to keep up a brave face before my father."

"Why did you not come and see papa?" said Molly; "or write to him?"

"I cannot tell. I drifted on, sometimes better, and sometimes worse,

till to-day I mustered up pluck, and came to hear what your father

has got to tell me: and all for no use it seems."

"I am very sorry. But it is only for two days. He shall go and see

you as soon as ever he returns."

"He must not alarm my father, remember, Molly," said Osborne, lifting

himself by the arms of his chair into an upright position and

speaking eagerly for the moment. "I wish to God Roger was at home!"

said he, falling back into the old posture.

"I can't help understanding you," said Molly. "You think yourself

very ill; but isn't it that you are tired just now?" She was not sure

if she ought to have understood what was passing in his mind; but as

she did, she could not help speaking a true reply.

"Well, sometimes I do think I'm very ill; and then, again, I think

it's only the moping life sets me fancying and exaggerating." He was

silent for some time. Then, as if he had taken a sudden resolution,

he spoke again. "You see, there are others depending upon me--upon my

health. You haven't forgotten what you heard that day in the library

at home? No, I know you haven't. I have seen the thought of it in

your eyes often since then. I didn't know you at that time. I think I

do now."

"Don't go on talking so fast," said Molly. "Rest. No one will

interrupt us; I will go on with my sewing; when you want to say

anything more I shall be listening." For she was alarmed at the

strange pallor that had come over his face.

"Thank you." After a time he roused himself, and began to speak very

quietly, as if on an indifferent matter of fact.

"The name of my wife is AimŽe. AimŽe Hamley, of course. She lives

at Bishopsfield, a village near Winchester. Write it down, but keep

it to yourself. She is a Frenchwoman, a Roman Catholic, and was a

servant. She is a thoroughly good woman. I must not say how dear she

is to me. I dare not. I meant once to have told Cynthia, but she

didn't seem quite to consider me as a brother. Perhaps she was shy of

a new relation; but you'll give my love to her, all the same. It is

a relief to think that some one else has my secret; and you are like

one of us, Molly. I can trust you almost as I can trust Roger. I feel

better already, now I feel that some one else knows the whereabouts

of my wife and child."

"Child!" said Molly, surprised. But before he could reply, Maria had

announced, "Miss Phoebe Browning."

"Fold up that paper," said he, quickly, putting something into her

hands. "It is only for yourself."