CHAPTER LIII.

UNLOOKED-FOR ARRIVALS.

Robinson opened the door for Molly almost before the carriage had

fairly drawn up at the Hall, and told her that the Squire had been

very anxious for her return, and had more than once sent him to

an upstairs window, from which a glimpse of the hill-road between

Hollingford and Hamley could be caught, to know if the carriage was

not yet in sight. Molly went into the drawing-room. The Squire was

standing in the middle of the floor awaiting her--in fact, longing to

go out and meet her, but restrained by a feeling of solemn etiquette,

which prevented his moving about as usual in that house of mourning.

He held a paper in his hands, which were trembling with excitement

and emotion; and four or five open letters were strewed on a table

near him.

"It's all true," he began; "she's his wife, and he's her husband--was

her husband--that's the word for it--was! Poor lad! poor lad! it's

cost him a deal. Pray God, it wasn't my fault. Read this, my dear.

It's a certificate. It's all regular--Osborne Hamley to Marie-AimŽe

Scherer,--parish-church and all, and witnessed. Oh, dear!" He sate

down in the nearest chair and groaned. Molly took a seat by him, and

read the legal paper, the perusal of which was not needed to convince

her of the fact of the marriage. She held it in her hand after she

had finished reading it, waiting for the Squire's next coherent

words; for he kept talking to himself in broken sentences. "Ay,

ay! that comes o' temper, and crabbedness. She was the only one as

could,--and I've been worse since she was gone. Worse! worse! and

see what it has come to! He was afraid of me--ay--afraid. That's the

truth of it--afraid. And it made him keep all to himself, and care

killed him. They may call it heart-disease--O my lad, my lad, I know

better now; but it's too late--that's the sting of it--too late, too

late!" He covered his face, and moved himself backward and forward

till Molly could bear it no longer.

"There are some letters," said she: "may I read any of them?" At

another time she would not have asked; but she was driven to it now

by her impatience of the speechless grief of the old man.

"Ay, read 'em, read 'em," said he. "Maybe you can. I can only pick

out a word here and there. I put 'em there for you to look at; and

tell me what is in 'em."

Molly's knowledge of written French of the present day was not so

great as her knowledge of the French of the _MŽmoires de Sully_, and

neither the spelling nor the writing of the letters was of the best;

but she managed to translate into good enough colloquial English some

innocent sentences of love, and submission to Osborne's will--as if

his judgment was infallible,--and of faith in his purposes,--little

sentences in "little language" that went home to the Squire's heart.

Perhaps if Molly had read French more easily she might not have

translated them into such touching, homely, broken words. Here and

there, there were expressions in English; these the hungry-hearted

Squire had read while waiting for Molly's return. Every time she

stopped, he said, "Go on." He kept his face shaded, and only repeated

those two words at every pause. She got up to find some more of

AimŽe's letters. In examining the papers, she came upon one in

particular. "Have you seen this, sir? This certificate of baptism"

(reading aloud) "of Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley, born June 21,

183--, child of Osborne Hamley and Marie-AimŽe his wife--"

"Give it me," said the Squire, his voice breaking now, and stretching

forth his eager hand. "'Roger,' that's me, 'Stephen,' that's my poor

old father: he died when he was not so old as I am; but I've always

thought on him as very old. He was main and fond of Osborne, when he

was quite a little one. It's good of the lad to have thought on my

father Stephen. Ay! that was his name. And Osborne--Osborne Hamley!

One Osborne Hamley lies dead on his bed--and t'other--t'other I've

never seen, and never heard on till to-day. He must be called

Osborne, Molly. There is a Roger--there's two for that matter; but

one is a good-for-nothing old man; and there's never an Osborne any

more, unless this little thing is called Osborne; we'll have him

here, and get a nurse for him; and make his mother comfortable for

life in her own country. I'll keep this, Molly. You're a good lass

for finding it. Osborne Hamley! And if God will give me grace, he

shall never hear a cross word from me--never! He shan't be afeard of

me. Oh, _my_ Osborne, _my_ Osborne" (he burst out), "do you know now

how bitter and sore is my heart for every hard word as I ever spoke

to you? Do you know now how I loved you--my boy--my boy?"

From the general tone of the letters, Molly doubted if the mother

would consent, so easily as the Squire seemed to expect, to be parted

from her child; the letters were not very wise, perhaps (though of

this Molly never thought), but a heart full of love spoke tender

words in every line. Still, it was not for Molly to talk of this

doubt of hers just then; but rather to dwell on the probable graces

and charms of the little Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley. She let

the Squire exhaust himself in wondering as to the particulars of

every event, helping him out in conjectures; and both of them, from

their imperfect knowledge of possibilities, made the most curious,

fantastic, and improbable guesses at the truth. And so that day

passed over, and the night came.

There were not many people who had any claim to be invited to the

funeral, and of these Mr. Gibson and the Squire's hereditary man of

business had taken charge. But when Mr. Gibson came, early on the

following morning, Molly referred the question to him, which had

suggested itself to her mind, though apparently not to the Squire's,

what intimation of her loss should be sent to the widow, living

solitary near Winchester, watching and waiting, if not for his coming

who lay dead in his distant home, at least for his letters. One from

her had already come, in her foreign handwriting, to the post-office

to which all her communications were usually sent, but of course they

at the Hall knew nothing of this.

"She must be told," said Mr. Gibson, musing.

"Yes, she must," replied his daughter. "But how?"

"A day or two of waiting will do no harm," said he, almost as if

he was anxious to delay the solution of the problem. "It will make

her anxious, poor thing, and all sorts of gloomy possibilities will

suggest themselves to her mind--amongst them the truth; it will be a

kind of preparation."

"For what? Something must be done at last," said Molly.

"Yes; true. Suppose you write, and say he's very ill; write

to-morrow. I daresay they've indulged themselves in daily postage,

and then she'll have had three days' silence. You say how you come

to know all you do about it; I think she ought to know he is very

ill--in great danger, if you like: and you can follow it up next day

with the full truth. I wouldn't worry the Squire about it. After the

funeral we will have a talk about the child."

"She will never part with it," said Molly.

"Whew! Till I see the woman I can't tell," said her father; "some

women would. It will be well provided for, according to what you say.

And she is a foreigner, and may very likely wish to go back to her

own people and kindred. There's much to be said on both sides."

"So you always say, papa. But in this case I think you'll find I'm

right. I judge from her letters; but I think I'm right."

"So you always say, daughter. Time will show. So the child is a

boy? Mrs. Gibson told me particularly to ask. It will go far to

reconciling her to Cynthia's dismissal of Roger. But indeed it is

quite as well for both of them, though of course he will be a long

time before he thinks so. They were not suited to each other. Poor

Roger! It was hard work writing to him yesterday; and who knows what

may have become of him! Well, well! one has to get through the world

somehow. I'm glad, however, this little lad has turned up to be the

heir. I shouldn't have liked the property to go to the Irish Hamleys,

who are the next heirs, as Osborne once told me. Now write that

letter, Molly, to the poor little Frenchwoman out yonder. It will

prepare her for it; and we must think a bit how to spare her the

shock, for Osborne's sake."

The writing this letter was rather difficult work for Molly, and

she tore up two or three copies before she could manage it to her

satisfaction; and at last, in despair of ever doing it better, she

sent it off without re-reading it. The next day was easier; the fact

of Osborne's death was told briefly and tenderly. But when this

second letter was sent off, Molly's heart began to bleed for the

poor creature, bereft of her husband, in a foreign land, and he at a

distance from her, dead and buried without her ever having had the

chance of printing his dear features on her memory by one last long

lingering look. With her thoughts full of the unknown AimŽe, Molly

talked much about her that day to the Squire. He would listen for

ever to any conjecture, however wild, about the grandchild, but

perpetually winced away from all discourse about "the Frenchwoman,"

as he called her; not unkindly, but to his mind she was simply the

Frenchwoman--chattering, dark-eyed, demonstrative, and possibly even

rouged. He would treat her with respect as his son's widow, and

would try even not to think upon the female inveiglement in which he

believed. He would make her an allowance to the extent of his duty:

but he hoped and trusted he might never be called upon to see her.

His solicitor, Gibson, anybody and everybody, should be called upon

to form a phalanx of defence against that danger.

And all this time a little young grey-eyed woman was making her

way,--not towards him, but towards the dead son, whom as yet she

believed to be her living husband. She knew she was acting in

defiance of his expressed wish; but he had never dismayed her with

any expression of his own fears about his health; and she, bright

with life, had never contemplated death coming to fetch away one so

beloved. He was ill--very ill, the letter from the strange girl said

that; but AimŽe had nursed her parents, and knew what illness was.

The French doctor had praised her skill and neat-handedness as a

nurse, and even if she had been the clumsiest of women, was he not

her husband--her all? And was she not his wife, whose place was by

his pillow? So, without even as much reasoning as has been here

given, AimŽe made her preparations, swallowing down the tears that

would overflow her eyes, and drop into the little trunk she was

packing so neatly. And by her side, on the ground, sate the child,

now nearly two years old; and for him AimŽe had always a smile and a

cheerful word. Her servant loved her and trusted her; and the woman

was of an age to have had experience of humankind. AimŽe had told

her that her husband was ill, and the servant had known enough of

the household history to be aware that as yet AimŽe was not his

acknowledged wife. But she sympathized with the prompt decision of

her mistress to go to him directly, wherever he was. Caution comes

from education of one kind or another, and AimŽe was not dismayed by

warnings; only the woman pleaded hard for the child to be left. "He

was such company," she said; "and he would so tire his mother in her

journeyings; and maybe his father would be too ill to see him." To

which AimŽe replied, "Good company for you, but better for me. A

woman is never tired with carrying her own child" (which was not

true; but there was sufficient truth in it to make it believed by

both mistress and servant), "and if Monsieur could care for anything,

he would rejoice to hear the babble of his little son." So AimŽe

caught the evening coach to London at the nearest cross-road, Martha

standing by as chaperon and friend to see her off, and handing her

in the large lusty child, already crowing with delight at the sight

of the horses. There was a "lingerie" shop, kept by a Frenchwoman,

whose acquaintance AimŽe had made in the days when she was a London

nursemaid, and thither she betook herself, rather than to an hotel,

to spend the few night-hours that intervened before the Birmingham

coach started at early morning. She slept or watched on a sofa in

the parlour, for spare-bed there was none; but Madame Pauline came

in betimes with a good cup of coffee for the mother, and of "soupe

blanche" for the boy; and they went off again into the wide world,

only thinking of, only seeking the "him," who was everything human

to both. AimŽe remembered the sound of the name of the village where

Osborne had often told her that he alighted from the coach to walk

home; and though she could never have spelt the strange uncouth word,

yet she spoke it with pretty slow distinctness to the guard, asking

him in her broken English when they should arrive there? Not till

four o'clock. Alas! and what might happen before then! Once with him

she would have no fear; she was sure that she could bring him round;

but what might not happen before he was in her tender care? She was

a very capable person in many ways, though so childish and innocent

in others. She made up her mind to the course she should pursue when

the coach set her down at Feversham. She asked for a man to carry her

trunk, and show her the way to Hamley Hall.

"Hamley Hall!" said the innkeeper. "Eh! there's a deal o' trouble

there just now."

"I know, I know," said she, hastening off after the wheelbarrow in

which her trunk was going, and breathlessly struggling to keep up

with it, her heavy child asleep in her arms. Her pulses beat all over

her body; she could hardly see out of her eyes. To her, a foreigner,

the drawn blinds of the house, when she came in sight of it, had no

significance; she hurried, stumbled on.

"Back door or front, missus?" asked the boots from the inn.

"The most nearest," said she. And the front door was "the most

nearest." Molly was sitting with the Squire in the darkened

drawing-room, reading out her translations of AimŽe's letters to her

husband. The Squire was never weary of hearing them; the very sound

of Molly's voice soothed and comforted him, it was so sweet and low.

And he pulled her up, much as a child does, if on a second reading of

the same letter she substituted one word for another. The house was

very still this afternoon,--still as it had been now for several

days; every servant in it, however needlessly, moving about on

tiptoe, speaking below the breath, and shutting doors as softly

as might be. The nearest noise or stir of active life was that of

the rooks in the trees, who were beginning their spring chatter of

business. Suddenly, through this quiet, there came a ring at the

front-door bell that sounded, and went on sounding, through the

house, pulled by an ignorant vigorous hand. Molly stopped reading;

she and the Squire looked at each other in surprised dismay. Perhaps

a thought of Roger's sudden (and impossible) return was in the mind

of each; but neither spoke. They heard Robinson hurrying to answer

the unwonted summons. They listened; but they heard no more. There

was little more to hear. When the old servant opened the door,

a lady with a child in her arms stood there. She gasped out her

ready-prepared English sentence,--

"Can I see Mr. Osborne Hamley? He is ill, I know; but I am his wife."

Robinson had been aware that there was some mystery, long suspected

by the servants, and come to light at last to the master,--he had

guessed that there was a young woman in the case; but when she stood

there before him, asking for her dead husband as if he were living,

any presence of mind Robinson might have had forsook him; he could

not tell her the truth,--he could only leave the door open, and say

to her, "Wait awhile, I'll come back," and betake himself to the

drawing-room where Molly was, he knew. He went up to her in a flutter

and a hurry, and whispered something to her which turned her white

with dismay.

"What is it? What is it?" said the Squire, trembling with excitement.

"Don't keep it from me. I can bear it. Roger--"

They both thought he was going to faint; he had risen up and come

close to Molly; suspense would be worse than anything.

"Mrs. Osborne Hamley is here," said Molly. "I wrote to tell her her

husband was very ill, and she has come."

"She does not know what has happened, seemingly," said Robinson.

"I can't see her--I can't see her," said the Squire, shrinking away

into a corner. "You will go, Molly, won't you? You'll go."

Molly stood for a moment or two, irresolute. She, too, shrank from

the interview. Robinson put in his word: "She looks but a weakly

thing, and has carried a big baby, choose how far, I didn't stop to

ask."

At this instant the door softly opened, and right into the midst of

them came the little figure in grey, looking ready to fall with the

weight of her child.

"You are Molly," said she, not seeing the Squire at once. "The lady

who wrote the letter; he spoke of you sometimes. You will let me go

to him."

Molly did not answer, except that at such moments the eyes speak

solemnly and comprehensively. AimŽe read their meaning. All she said

was,--"He is not--oh, my husband--my husband!" Her arms relaxed, her

figure swayed, the child screamed and held out his arms for help.

That help was given him by his grandfather, just before AimŽe fell

senseless on the floor.

"Maman, maman!" cried the little fellow, now striving and fighting to

get back to her, where she lay; he fought so lustily that the Squire

had to put him down, and he crawled to the poor inanimate body,

behind which sat Molly, holding the head; whilst Robinson rushed away

for water, wine, and more womankind.

[Illustration: "MAMAN, MAMAN!"]

"Poor thing, poor thing!" said the Squire, bending over her, and

crying afresh over her suffering. "She is but young, Molly, and she

must ha' loved him dearly."

"To be sure!" said Molly, quickly. She was untying the bonnet, and

taking off the worn, but neatly mended gloves; there was the soft

luxuriant black hair, shading the pale, innocent face,--the little

notable-looking brown hands, with the wedding-ring for sole ornament.

The child clustered his fingers round one of hers, and nestled up

against her with his plaintive cry, getting more and more into a

burst of wailing: "Maman, maman!" At the growing acuteness of his

imploring, her hand moved, her lips quivered, consciousness came

partially back. She did not open her eyes, but great heavy tears

stole out from beneath her eyelashes. Molly held her head against

her own breast; and they tried to give her wine,--which she shrank

from--water, which she did not reject; that was all. At last she

tried to speak. "Take me away," she said, "into the dark. Leave me

alone."

So Molly and the woman lifted her up and carried her away, and laid

her on the bed, in the best bed-chamber in the house, and darkened

the already shaded light. She was like an unconscious corpse herself,

in that she offered neither assistance nor resistance to all that

they were doing. But just before Molly was leaving the room to take

up her watch outside the door, she felt rather than heard that AimŽe

spoke to her.

"Food--bread and milk for baby." But when they brought her food

herself, she only shrank away and turned her face to the wall without

a word. In the hurry, the child had been left with Robinson and

the Squire. For some unknown, but most fortunate reason, he took a

dislike to Robinson's red face and hoarse voice, and showed a most

decided preference for his grandfather. When Molly came down she

found the Squire feeding the child, with more of peace upon his face

than there had been for all these days. The boy was every now and

then leaving off taking his bread and milk to show his dislike to

Robinson by word and gesture: a proceeding which only amused the old

servant, while it highly delighted the more favoured Squire.

"She is lying very still, but she will neither speak nor eat. I don't

even think she is crying," said Molly, volunteering this account, for

the Squire was for the moment too much absorbed in his grandson to

ask many questions.

Robinson put in his word: "Dick Hayward, he's Boots at the Hamley

Arms, says the coach she come by started at five this morning from

London, and the passengers said she'd been crying a deal on the road,

when she thought folks were not noticing; and she never came in to

meals with the rest, but stopped feeding her child."

"She'll be tired out; we must let her rest," said the Squire. "And I

do believe this little chap is going to sleep in my arms. God bless

him."

But Molly stole out, and sent off a lad to Hollingford with a note to

her father. Her heart had warmed towards the poor stranger, and she

felt uncertain as to what ought to be the course pursued in her case.

She went up from time to time to look at the girl, scarce older than

herself, who lay there with her eyes open, but as motionless as

death. She softly covered her over, and let her feel the sympathetic

presence from time to time; and that was all she was allowed to do.

The Squire was curiously absorbed in the child, but Molly's supreme

tenderness was for the mother. Not but what she admired the sturdy,

gallant, healthy little fellow, whose every limb, and square inch of

clothing, showed the tender and thrifty care that had been taken of

him. By-and-by the Squire said in a whisper,--

"She's not like a Frenchwoman, is she, Molly?"

"I don't know. I don't know what Frenchwomen are like. People say

Cynthia is French."

"And she didn't look like a servant? We won't speak of Cynthia since

she's served my Roger so. Why, I began to think, as soon as I could

think after _that_, how I would make Roger and her happy, and have

them married at once; and then came that letter! I never wanted her

for a daughter-in-law, not I. But he did, it seems; and he wasn't one

for wanting many things for himself. But it's all over now; only we

won't talk of her; and maybe, as you say, she was more French than

English. This poor thing looks like a gentlewoman, I think. I hope

she's got friends who'll take care of her,--she can't be above

twenty. I thought she must be older than my poor lad!"

"She's a gentle, pretty creature," said Molly. "But--but I sometimes

think it has killed her; she lies like one dead." And Molly could not

keep from crying softly at the thought.

"Nay, nay!" said the Squire. "It's not so easy to break one's heart.

Sometimes I've wished it were. But one has to go on living--'all

the appointed days,' as it says in the Bible. But we'll do our best

for her. We'll not think of letting her go away till she's fit to

travel."

Molly wondered in her heart about this going away, on which the

Squire seemed fully resolved. She was sure that he intended to keep

the child; perhaps he had a legal right to do so;--but would the

mother ever part from it? Her father, however, would solve the

difficulty,--her father, whom she always looked to as so clear-seeing

and experienced. She watched and waited for his coming. The February

evening drew on; the child lay asleep in the Squire's arms till his

grandfather grew tired, and laid him down on the sofa: the large

square-cornered yellow sofa upon which Mrs. Hamley used to sit,

supported by pillows in a half-reclining position. Since her time it

had been placed against the wall, and had served merely as a piece

of furniture to fill up the room. But once again a human figure was

lying upon it; a little human creature, like a cherub in some old

Italian picture. The Squire remembered his wife as he put the child

down. He thought of her as he said to Molly,--

"How pleased she would have been!" But Molly thought of the poor

young widow upstairs. AimŽe was her "she" at the first moment.

Presently,--but it seemed a long long time first,--she heard the

quick prompt sounds which told of her father's arrival. In he

came--to the room as yet only lighted by the fitful blaze of the

fire.