CHAPTER LI.

"TROUBLES NEVER COME ALONE."

[Illustration (untitled)]

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, which 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 here 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 haven't 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've 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'll 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 couldn't 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've often told Molly so. And

I would have told you, if I hadn't 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 wasn't made for me, and graciously forgiving

me at last."

"Then I do believe it's right for you to break it off," said Mr.

Gibson, almost as if he were thinking to himself. "That poor 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'm 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 shouldn't 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 isn't 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.

"Isn't 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 as 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's no doubt according to what

they said. But I've 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 had 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 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 ears;

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

sat 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 sat 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.