CHAPTER XLVI.
HOLLINGFORD GOSSIPS.
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"My dear Molly, why didn't you come and dine with us? I said to
sister I would come and scold you well. Oh, Mr. Osborne Hamley, is
that you?" and a look of mistaken intelligence at the tte--tte
she had disturbed came so perceptibly over Miss Phoebe's face that
Molly caught Osborne's sympathetic eye, and both smiled at the
notion.
"I'm sure I--well! one must sometimes--I see our dinner would have
been--" Then she recovered herself into a connected sentence. "We
only just heard of Mrs. Gibson's having a fly from the 'George,'
because sister sent our Nancy to pay for a couple of rabbits Tom
Ostler had snared, (I hope we shan't be taken up for poachers, Mr.
Osborne--snaring doesn't require a licence, I believe?) and she heard
he was gone off with the fly to the Towers with your dear mamma; for
Coxe who drives the fly in general has sprained his ankle. We had
just finished dinner, but when Nancy said Tom Ostler would not be
back till night, I said, 'Why, there's that poor dear girl left all
alone by herself, and her mother such a friend of ours,'--when she
was alive, I mean. But I'm sure I'm glad I'm mistaken."
Osborne said,--"I came to speak to Mr. Gibson, not knowing he had
gone to London, and Miss Gibson kindly gave me some of her lunch.
I must go now."
"Oh dear! I am so sorry," fluttered out Miss Phoebe, "I disturbed
you; but it was with the best intentions. I always was mal-propos
from a child." But Osborne was gone before she had finished her
apologies. As he left, his eyes met Molly's with a strange look
of yearning farewell that struck her at the time, and that she
remembered strongly afterwards. "Such a nice suitable thing, and I
came in the midst, and spoilt it all. I am sure you're very kind, my
dear, considering--"
"Considering what, my dear Miss Phoebe? If you are conjecturing a
love affair between Mr. Osborne Hamley and me, you never were more
mistaken in your life. I think I told you so once before. Please do
believe me."
"Oh, yes! I remember. And somehow sister got it into her head it was
Mr. Preston. I recollect."
"One guess is just as wrong as the other," said Molly, smiling, and
trying to look perfectly indifferent, but going extremely red at the
mention of Mr. Preston's name. It was very difficult for her to keep
up any conversation, for her heart was full of Osborne--his changed
appearance, his melancholy words of foreboding, and his confidences
about his wife--French, Catholic, servant. Molly could not help
trying to piece these strange facts together by imaginations of her
own, and found it very hard work to attend to kind Miss Phoebe's
unceasing patter. She came up to the point, however, when the voice
ceased; and could recall, in a mechanical manner, the echo of the
last words, which both from Miss Phoebe's look, and the dying
accent that lingered in Molly's ear, she perceived to be a question.
Miss Phoebe was asking her if she would go out with her. She was
going to Grinstead's, the bookseller of Hollingford; who, in addition
to his regular business, was the agent for the Hollingford Book
Society, received their subscriptions, kept their accounts, ordered
their books from London, and, on payment of a small salary, allowed
the Society to keep their volumes on shelves in his shop. It was
the centre of news, and the club, as it were, of the little town.
Everybody who pretended to gentility in the place belonged to it. It
was a test of gentility, indeed, rather than of education or a love
of literature. No shopkeeper would have thought of offering himself
as a member, however great his general intelligence and love of
reading; while it boasted on its list of subscribers most of the
county families in the neighbourhood, some of whom subscribed to it
as a sort of duty belonging to their station, without often using
their privilege of reading the books: while there were residents
in the little town, such as Mrs. Goodenough, who privately thought
reading a great waste of time, that might be much better employed
in sewing, and knitting, and pastry-making, but who nevertheless
belonged to it as a mark of station, just as these good, motherly
women would have thought it a terrible come-down in the world if they
had not had a pretty young servant-maid to fetch them home from the
tea-parties at night. At any rate, Grinstead's was a very convenient
place for a lounge. In that view of the Book Society every one
agreed.
Molly went upstairs to get ready to accompany Miss Phoebe; and on
opening one of her drawers she saw Cynthia's envelope, containing
the money she owed to Mr. Preston, carefully sealed up like a letter.
This was what Molly had so unwillingly promised to deliver--the last
final stroke to the affair. Molly took it up, hating it. For a time
she had forgotten it; and now it was here, facing her, and she must
try and get rid of it. She put it into her pocket for the chances
of the walk and the day, and fortune for once seemed to befriend
her; for, on their entering Grinstead's shop, in which two or three
people were now, as always, congregated, making play of examining the
books, or business of writing down the titles of new works in the
order-book, there was Mr. Preston. He bowed as they came in. He could
not help that; but, at the sight of Molly, he looked as ill-tempered
and out of humour as a man well could do. She was connected in his
mind with defeat and mortification; and besides, the sight of her
called up what he desired now, above all things, to forget; namely,
the deep conviction, received through Molly's simple earnestness,
of Cynthia's dislike to him. If Miss Phoebe had seen the scowl upon
his handsome face, she might have undeceived her sister in her
suppositions about him and Molly. But Miss Phoebe, who did not
consider it quite maidenly to go and stand close to Mr. Preston, and
survey the shelves of books in such close proximity to a gentleman,
found herself an errand at the other end of the shop, and occupied
herself in buying writing-paper. Molly fingered her valuable letter,
as it lay in her pocket; did she dare to cross over to Mr. Preston,
and give it to him, or not? While she was still undecided, shrinking
always just at the moment when she thought she had got her courage
up for action, Miss Phoebe, having finished her purchase, turned
round, and after looking a little pathetically at Mr. Preston's back,
said to Molly in a whisper--"I think we'll go to Johnson's now, and
come back for the books in a little while." So across the street to
Johnson's they went; but no sooner had they entered the draper's
shop, than Molly's conscience smote her for her cowardice, and loss
of a good opportunity. "I'll be back directly," said she, as soon as
Miss Phoebe was engaged with her purchases; and Molly ran across to
Grinstead's, without looking either to the right or the left; she had
been watching the door, and she knew that no Mr. Preston had issued
forth. She ran in; he was at the counter now, talking to Grinstead
himself; Molly put the letter into his hand, to his surprise,
and almost against his will, and turned round to go back to Miss
Phoebe. At the door of the shop stood Mrs. Goodenough, arrested in
the act of entering, staring, with her round eyes, made still rounder
and more owl-like by spectacles, to see Molly Gibson giving Mr.
Preston a letter, which he, conscious of being watched, and favouring
underhand practices habitually, put quickly into his pocket,
unopened. Perhaps, if he had had time for reflection he would not
have scrupled to put Molly to open shame, by rejecting what she so
eagerly forced upon him.
There was another long evening to be got through with Mrs. Gibson;
but on this occasion there was the pleasant occupation of dinner,
which took up at least an hour; for it was one of Mrs. Gibson's
fancies--one which Molly chafed against--to have every ceremonial
gone through in the same stately manner for two as for twenty. So,
although Molly knew full well, and her stepmother knew full well,
and Maria knew full well, that neither Mrs. Gibson nor Molly touched
dessert, it was set on the table with as much form as if Cynthia had
been at home, who delighted in almonds and raisins; or Mr. Gibson
been there, who never could resist dates, though he always protested
against "persons in their station of life having a formal dessert set
out before them every day."
And Mrs. Gibson herself apologized, as it were, to Molly to-day,
in the same words she had often used to Mr. Gibson,--"It's no
extravagance, for we need not eat it--I never do. But it looks well,
and makes Maria understand what is required in the daily life of
every family of position."
All through the evening Molly's thoughts wandered far and wide,
though she managed to keep up a show of attention to what Mrs.
Gibson was saying. She was thinking of Osborne, and his abrupt,
half-finished confidence, and his ill-looks; she was wondering when
Roger would come home, and longing for his return, as much (she said
to herself) for Osborne's sake as for her own. And then she checked
herself. What had she to do with Roger? Why should she long for his
return? It was Cynthia who was doing this; only somehow he was such
a true friend to Molly, that she could not help thinking of him as a
staff and a stay in the troublous times which appeared to lie not far
ahead--this evening. Then Mr. Preston and her little adventure with
him came uppermost. How angry he looked! How could Cynthia have
liked him even enough to get into this abominable scrape, which
was, however, all over now! And so she ran on in her fancies and
imaginations, little dreaming that that very night much talk was
going on not half-a-mile from where she sate sewing, that would prove
that the "scrape" (as she called it, in her girlish phraseology) was
not all over.
Scandal sleeps in the summer, comparatively speaking. Its nature is
the reverse of that of the dormouse. Warm ambient air, loiterings
abroad, gardenings, flowers to talk about, and preserves to make,
soothed the wicked imp to slumber in the parish of Hollingford in
summer-time. But when evenings grew short, and people gathered round
the fires, and put their feet in a circle--not on the fenders, that
was not allowed--then was the time for confidential conversation!
Or in the pauses allowed for the tea-trays to circulate among the
card-tables--when those who were peaceably inclined tried to stop
the warm discussions about "the odd trick," and the rather wearisome
feminine way of "shouldering the crutch, and showing how fields were
won"--small crumbs and scraps of daily news came up to the surface,
such as "Martindale has raised the price of his best joints a
halfpenny in the pound;" or, "It's a shame of Sir Harry to order in
another book on farriery into the Book Society; Phoebe and I tried
to read it, but really there is no general interest in it;" or, "I
wonder what Mr. Ashton will do, now Nancy is going to be married!
Why, she's been with him these seventeen years! It's a very foolish
thing for a woman of her age to be thinking of matrimony; and so I
told her, when I met her in the market-place this morning!"
So said Miss Browning on the night in question; her hand of cards
lying by her on the puce baize-covered table, while she munched the
rich pound-cake of a certain Mrs. Dawes, lately come to inhabit
Hollingford.
"Matrimony's not so bad as you think for, Miss Browning," said Mrs.
Goodenough, standing up for the holy estate into which she had twice
entered. "If I'd ha' seen Nancy, I should ha' given her my mind very
different. It's a great thing to be able to settle what you'll have
for dinner, without never a one interfering with you."
"If that's all!" said Miss Browning, drawing herself up, "I can do
that; and, perhaps, better than a woman who has a husband to please."
"No one can say as I didn't please my husbands--both on 'em, though
Jeremy was tickler in his tastes than poor Harry Beaver. But as I
used to say to 'em, 'Leave the victual to me; it's better for you
than knowing what's to come beforehand. The stomach likes to be
taken by surprise.' And neither of 'em ever repented 'em of their
confidence. You may take my word for it, beans and bacon will taste
better (and Mr. Ashton's Nancy in her own house) than all the
sweetbreads and spring chickens she's been a-doing for him this
seventeen years. But if I chose, I could tell you of something as
would interest you all a deal more than old Nancy's marriage to a
widower with nine children--only as the young folks themselves is
meeting in private, clandestine-like, it's perhaps not for me to tell
their secrets."
"I'm sure I don't want to hear of clandestine meetings between young
men and young women," said Miss Browning, throwing up her head. "It's
disgrace enough to the people themselves, I consider, if they enter
on a love affair without the proper sanction of parents. I know
public opinion has changed on the subject; but when poor Gratia was
married to Mr. Byerley, he wrote to my father without ever having so
much as paid her a compliment, or said more than the most trivial and
commonplace things to her; and my father and mother sent for her into
my father's study, and she said she was never so much frightened in
her life,--and they said it was a very good offer, and Mr. Byerley
was a very worthy man, and they hoped she would behave properly to
him when he came to supper that night. And after that he was allowed
to come twice a week till they were married. My mother and I sate at
our work in the bow-window of the Rectory drawing-room, and Gratia
and Mr. Byerley at the other end; and my mother always called my
attention to some flower or plant in the garden when it struck nine,
for that was his time for going. Without offence to the present
company, I am rather inclined to look upon matrimony as a weakness to
which some very worthy people are prone; but if they must be married,
let them make the best of it, and go through the affair with dignity
and propriety: or if there are misdoings and clandestine meetings,
and such things, at any rate, never let me hear about them! I think
it's you to play, Mrs. Dawes. You'll excuse my frankness on the
subject of matrimony! Mrs. Goodenough there can tell you I'm a very
out-spoken person."
"It's not the out-speaking, it's what you say that goes against me,
Miss Browning," said Mrs. Goodenough, affronted, yet ready to play
her card as soon as needed. And as for Mrs. Dawes, she was too
anxious to get into the genteelest of all (Hollingford) society to
object to whatever Miss Browning (who, in right of being a deceased
rector's daughter, rather represented the selectest circle of the
little town) advocated, whether celibacy, marriage, bigamy, or
polygamy.
So the remainder of the evening passed over without any further
reference to the secret Mrs. Goodenough was burning to disclose,
unless a remark made _propos de rien_ by Miss Browning, during the
silence of a deal, could be supposed to have connection with the
previous conversation. She said suddenly and abruptly,--
"I don't know what I have done that any man should make me his
slave." If she was referring to any prospect of matrimonial danger
she saw opening before her fancy, she might have been comforted. But
it was a remark of which no one took any notice, all being far too
much engaged in the rubber. Only when Miss Browning took her early
leave (for Miss Phoebe had a cold, and was an invalid at home),
Mrs. Goodenough burst out with--
"Well! now I may speak out my mind, and say as how if there was a
slave between us two, when Goodenough was alive, it wasn't me; and
I don't think as it was pretty in Miss Browning to give herself such
airs on her virginity when there was four widows in the room,--who've
had six honest men among 'em for husbands. No offence, Miss Airy!"
addressing an unfortunate little spinster, who found herself the sole
representative of celibacy now that Miss Browning was gone. "I could
tell her of a girl as she's very fond on, who's on the high road to
matrimony; and in as cunning a way as ever I heerd on; going out at
dusk to meet her sweetheart, just as if she was my Sally, or your
Jenny. And her name is Molly too,--which, as I have often thought,
shows a low taste in them as first called her so;--she might as
well be a scullery-maid at oncest. Not that she's picked up anybody
common; she's looked about her for a handsome fellow, and a smart
young man enough!"
Every one around the table looked curious and intent on the
disclosures being made, except the hostess, Mrs. Dawes, who smiled
intelligence with her eyes, and knowingly pursed up her mouth until
Mrs. Goodenough had finished her tale. Then she said demurely,--
"I suppose you mean Mr. Preston and Miss Gibson?"
"Why, who told you?" said Mrs. Goodenough, turning round upon her
in surprise. "You can't say as I did. There's many a Molly in
Hollingford, besides her,--though none, perhaps, in such a genteel
station in life. I never named her, I'm sure."
"No. But I know. I could tell my tale too," continued Mrs. Dawes.
"No! could you, really?" said Mrs. Goodenough, very curious and a
little jealous.
"Yes. My uncle Sheepshanks came upon them in the Park Avenue,--he
startled 'em a good deal, he said; and when he taxed Mr. Preston with
being with his sweetheart, he didn't deny it."
"Well! Now so much has come out, I'll tell you what I know. Only,
ladies, I wouldn't wish to do the girl an unkind turn,--so you must
keep what I've got to tell you a secret." Of course they promised;
that was easy.
"My Hannah, as married Tom Oakes, and lives in Pearson's Lane,
was a-gathering of damsons only a week ago, and Molly Gibson was
a-walking fast down the lane,--quite in a hurry like to meet some
one,--and Hannah's little Anna-Maria fell down, and Molly (who's a
kind-hearted lass enough) picked her up; so if Hannah had had her
doubts before, she had none then."
"But there was no one with her, was there?" asked one of the ladies,
anxiously, as Mrs. Goodenough stopped to finish her piece of cake,
just at this crisis.
"No: I said she looked as if she was going to meet some one,--and
by-and-by comes Mr. Preston running out of the wood just beyond
Hannah's, and says he, 'A cup of water, please, good woman, for a
lady has fainted, or is 'sterical or something.' Now though he didn't
know Hannah, Hannah knew him. 'More folks know Tom Fool, than Tom
Fool knows,' asking Mr. Preston's pardon; for he's no fool whatever
he be. And I could tell you more,--and what I've seed with my
own eyes. I seed her give him a letter in Grinstead's shop, only
yesterday, and he looked as black as thunder at her, for he seed me
if she didn't."
"It's a very suitable kind of thing," said Miss Airy; "why do they
make such a mystery of it?"
"Some folks like it," said Mrs. Dawes; "it adds zest to it all, to do
their courting underhand."
"Ay, it's like salt to their victual," put in Mrs. Goodenough. "But I
didn't think Molly Gibson was one of that sort, I didn't."
"The Gibsons hold themselves very high?" cried Mrs. Dawes, more as an
inquiry than an assertion. "Mrs. Gibson has called upon me."
"Ay, you're like to be a patient of the doctor's," put in Mrs.
Goodenough.
"She seemed to me very affable, though she is so intimate with the
Countess and the family at the Towers; and is quite the lady herself;
dines late, I've heard, and everything in style."
"Style! very different style to what Bob Gibson, her husband, was
used to when first he came here,--glad of a mutton-chop in his
surgery, for I doubt if he'd a fire anywhere else; we called him Bob
Gibson then, but none on us dare Bob him now; I'd as soon think o'
calling him sweep!"
"I think it looks very bad for Miss Gibson!" said one lady, rather
anxious to bring back the conversation to the more interesting
present time. But as soon as Mrs. Goodenough heard this natural
comment on the disclosures she had made, she fired round on the
speaker:--
"Not at all bad, and I'll trouble you not to use such a word as that
about Molly Gibson, as I've known all her life. It's odd if you will.
I was odd myself as a girl; I never could abide a plate of gathered
gooseberries, but I must needs go and skulk behind a bush and gather
'em for myself. It's some folk's taste, though it mayn't be Miss
Browning's, who'd have all the courting done under the nose of the
family. All as ever I said was that I was surprised at it in Molly
Gibson; and that I'd ha' thought it was liker that pretty piece of a
Cynthia as they call her; indeed, at one time I was ready to swear
as it was her Mr. Preston was after. And now, ladies, I'll wish you
a very good night. I cannot abide waste; and I'll venture for it
Sally's letting the candle in the lantern run all to grease, instead
of putting it out, as I've told her to do, if ever she's got to wait
for me."
So with formal dipping curtseys the ladies separated, but not without
thanking Mrs. Dawes for the pleasant evening they had had; a piece of
old-fashioned courtesy always gone through in those days.