CHAPTER VI.

A VISIT TO THE HAMLEYS.

Of course the news of Miss Gibson's approaching departure had spread

through the household before the one o'clock dinner-time came; and

Mr. Coxe's dismal countenance was a source of much inward irritation

to Mr. Gibson, who kept giving the youth sharp glances of savage

reproof for his melancholy face, and want of appetite; which he

trotted out, with a good deal of sad ostentation; all of which was

lost upon Molly, who was too full of her own personal concerns to

have any thought or observation to spare from them, excepting once or

twice when she thought of the many days that must pass over before

she should again sit down to dinner with her father.

When she named this to him after the meal was over, and they were

sitting together in the drawing-room, waiting for the sound of the

wheels of the Hamley carriage, he laughed, and said,--

"I'm coming over to-morrow to see Mrs. Hamley; and I daresay I shall

dine at their lunch; so you won't have to wait long before you've the

treat of seeing the wild beast feed."

Then they heard the approaching carriage.

"Oh, papa," said Molly, catching at his hand, "I do so wish I wasn't

going, now that the time is come."

"Nonsense; don't let us have any sentiment. Have you got your keys?

that's more to the purpose."

Yes; she had got her keys, and her purse; and her little box was

put up on the seat by the coachman; and her father handed her in;

the door was shut, and she drove away in solitary grandeur, looking

back and kissing her hand to her father, who stood at the gate, in

spite of his dislike of sentiment, as long as the carriage could

be seen. Then he turned into the surgery, and found Mr. Coxe had

had his watching too, and had, indeed, remained at the window

gazing, moonstruck, at the empty road, up which the young lady had

disappeared. Mr. Gibson startled him from his reverie by a sharp,

almost venomous, speech about some small neglect of duty a day or two

before. That night Mr. Gibson insisted on passing by the bedside of a

poor girl whose parents were worn-out by many wakeful anxious nights

succeeding to hard-working days.

Molly cried a little, but checked her tears as soon as she remembered

how annoyed her father would have been at the sight of them. It

was very pleasant driving quickly along in the luxurious carriage,

through the pretty green lanes, with dog-roses and honeysuckles so

plentiful and rathe in the hedges, that she once or twice was tempted

to ask the coachman to stop till she had gathered a nosegay. She

began to dread the end of her little journey of seven miles; the only

drawback to which was, that her silk was not a true clan-tartan, and

a little uncertainty as to Miss Rose's punctuality. At length they

came to a village; straggling cottages lined the road, an old church

stood on a kind of green, with the public-house close by it; there

was a great tree, with a bench all round the trunk, midway between

the church gates and the little inn. The wooden stocks were close to

the gates. Molly had long passed the limit of her rides, but she knew

this must be the village of Hamley, and that they must be very near

to the hall.

They swung in at the gates of the park in a few minutes, and drove up

through meadow-grass, ripening for hay,--it was no grand aristocratic

deer-park this--to the old red-brick hall; not three hundred yards

from the high-road. There had been no footman sent with the carriage,

but a respectable servant stood at the door, even before they drew

up, ready to receive the expected visitor, and take her into the

drawing-room where his mistress lay awaiting her.

Mrs. Hamley rose from her sofa to give Molly a gentle welcome; she

kept the girl's hand in hers after she had finished speaking, looking

into her face, as if studying it, and unconscious of the faint blush

she called up on the otherwise colourless cheeks.

"I think we shall be great friends," said she, at length. "I like

your face, and I am always guided by first impressions. Give me a

kiss, my dear."

It was far easier to be active than passive during this process of

"swearing eternal friendship," and Molly willingly kissed the sweet

pale face held up to her.

"I meant to have gone and fetched you myself; but the heat oppresses

me, and I did not feel up to the exertion. I hope you had a pleasant

drive?"

"Very," said Molly, with shy conciseness.

"And now I will take you to your room; I have had you put close to

me; I thought you would like it better, even though it was a smaller

room than the other."

She rose languidly, and wrapping her light shawl round her yet

elegant figure, led the way upstairs. Molly's bedroom opened

out of Mrs. Hamley's private sitting-room; on the other side of

which was her own bedroom. She showed Molly this easy means of

communication, and then, telling her visitor she would await her in

the sitting-room, she closed the door, and Molly was left at leisure

to make acquaintance with her surroundings.

First of all, she went to the window to see what was to be seen.

A flower-garden right below; a meadow of ripe grass just beyond,

changing colour in long sweeps, as the soft wind blew over it; great

old forest-trees a little on one side; and, beyond them again, to be

seen only by standing very close to the side of the window-sill, or

by putting her head out, if the window was open, the silver shimmer

of a mere, about a quarter of a mile off. On the opposite side to the

trees and the mere, the look-out was bounded by the old walls and

high-peaked roofs of the extensive farm-buildings. The deliciousness

of the early summer silence was only broken by the song of the birds,

and the nearer hum of bees. Listening to these sounds, which enhanced

the exquisite sense of stillness, and puzzling out objects obscured

by distance or shadow, Molly forgot herself, and was suddenly

startled into a sense of the present by a sound of voices in the

next room--some servant or other speaking to Mrs. Hamley. Molly

hurried to unpack her box, and arrange her few clothes in the

pretty old-fashioned chest of drawers, which was to serve her

as dressing-table as well. All the furniture in the room was as

old-fashioned and as well-preserved as it could be. The chintz

curtains were Indian calico of the last century--the colours almost

washed out, but the stuff itself exquisitely clean. There was a

little strip of bedside carpeting, but the wooden flooring, thus

liberally displayed, was of finely-grained oak, so firmly joined,

plank to plank, that no grain of dust could make its way into the

interstices. There were none of the luxuries of modern days; no

writing-table, or sofa, or pier-glass. In one corner of the walls was

a bracket, holding an Indian jar filled with pot-pourri; and that and

the climbing honeysuckle outside the open window scented the room

more exquisitely than any toilette perfumes. Molly laid out her white

gown (of last year's date and size) upon the bed, ready for the (to

her new) operation of dressing for dinner, and having arranged her

hair and dress, and taken out her company worsted-work, she opened

the door softly, and saw Mrs. Hamley lying on the sofa.

"Shall we stay up here, my dear? I think it is pleasanter than

down below; and then I shall not have to come upstairs again at

dressing-time."

"I shall like it very much," replied Molly.

"Ah! you've got your sewing, like a good girl," said Mrs. Hamley.

"Now, I don't sew much. I live alone a great deal. You see, both

my boys are at Cambridge, and the squire is out of doors all day

long--so I have almost forgotten how to sew. I read a great deal. Do

you like reading?"

"It depends upon the kind of book," said Molly. "I'm afraid I don't

like 'steady reading,' as papa calls it."

"But you like poetry!" said Mrs. Hamley, almost interrupting Molly.

"I was sure you did, from your face. Have you read this last poem of

Mrs. Hemans? Shall I read it aloud to you?"

So she began. Molly was not so much absorbed in listening but that

she could glance round the room. The character of the furniture was

much the same as in her own. Old-fashioned, of handsome material,

and faultlessly clean, the age and the foreign appearance of it gave

an aspect of comfort and picturesqueness to the whole apartment. On

the walls there hung some crayon sketches--portraits. She thought

she could make out that one of them was a likeness of Mrs. Hamley,

in her beautiful youth. And then she became interested in the poem,

and dropped her work, and listened in a manner that was after Mrs.

Hamley's own heart. When the reading of the poem was ended, Mrs.

Hamley replied to some of Molly's words of admiration, by saying:

"Ah! I think I must read you some of Osborne's poetry some day; under

seal of secrecy, remember; but I really fancy they are almost as good

as Mrs. Hemans'."

To be nearly as good as Mrs. Hemans' was saying as much to the young

ladies of that day, as saying that poetry is nearly as good as

Tennyson's would be in this. Molly looked up with eager interest.

"Mr. Osborne Hamley? Does your son write poetry?"

"Yes. I really think I may say he is a poet. He is a very brilliant,

clever young man, and he quite hopes to get a fellowship at Trinity.

He says he is sure to be high up among the wranglers, and that

he expects to get one of the Chancellor's medals. That is his

likeness--the one hanging against the wall behind you."

Molly turned round, and saw one of the crayon sketches--representing

two boys, in the most youthful kind of jackets and trousers, and

falling collars. The elder was sitting down, reading intently.

The younger was standing by him, and evidently trying to call the

attention of the reader off to some object out of doors--out of

the window of the very room in which they were sitting, as Molly

discovered when she began to recognize the articles of furniture

faintly indicated in the picture.

"I like their faces!" said Molly. "I suppose it is so long ago now,

that I may speak of their likenesses to you as if they were somebody

else; may not I?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Hamley, as soon as she understood what Molly

meant. "Tell me just what you think of them, my dear; it will amuse

me to compare your impressions with what they really are."

"Oh! but I did not mean to guess at their characters. I could not do

it; and it would be impertinent, if I could. I can only speak about

their faces as I see them in the picture."

"Well! tell me what you think of them!"

"The eldest--the reading boy--is very beautiful; but I can't quite

make out his face yet, because his head is down, and I can't see the

eyes. That is the Mr. Osborne Hamley who writes poetry."

"Yes. He is not quite so handsome now; but he was a beautiful boy.

Roger was never to be compared with him."

"No; he is not handsome. And yet I like his face. I can see his eyes.

They are grave and solemn-looking; but all the rest of his face is

rather merry than otherwise. It looks too steady and sober, too good

a face, to go tempting his brother to leave his lesson."

"Ah! but it was not a lesson. I remember the painter, Mr. Green, once

saw Osborne reading some poetry, while Roger was trying to persuade

him to come out and have a ride in the hay-cart--that was the

'motive' of the picture, to speak artistically. Roger is not much of

a reader; at least, he doesn't care for poetry, and books of romance,

or sentiment. He is so fond of natural history; and that takes him,

like the squire, a great deal out of doors; and when he is in, he is

always reading scientific books that bear upon his pursuits. He is a

good, steady fellow, though, and gives us great satisfaction, but he

is not likely to have such a brilliant career as Osborne."

Molly tried to find out in the picture the characteristics of the

two boys, as they were now explained to her by their mother; and in

questions and answers about the various drawings hung round the room

the time passed away until the dressing-bell rang for the six o'clock

dinner.

Molly was rather dismayed by the offers of the maid whom Mrs. Hamley

had sent to assist her. "I am afraid they expect me to be very

smart," she kept thinking to herself. "If they do, they'll be

disappointed; that's all. But I wish my plaid silk gown had been

ready."

She looked at herself in the glass with some anxiety, for the first

time in her life. She saw a slight, lean figure, promising to be

tall; a complexion browner than cream-coloured, although in a year or

two it might have that tint; plentiful curly black hair, tied up in a

bunch behind with a rose-coloured ribbon; long, almond-shaped, soft

gray eyes, shaded both above and below by curling black eyelashes.

"I don't think I am pretty," thought Molly, as she turned away from

the glass; "and yet I'm not sure." She would have been sure, if,

instead of inspecting herself with such solemnity, she had smiled her

own sweet merry smile, and called out the gleam of her teeth, and the

charm of her dimples.

She found her way downstairs into the drawing-room in good time;

she could look about her, and learn how to feel at home in her

new quarters. The room was forty-feet long or so, fitted up with

yellow satin at some distant period; high spindle-legged chairs and

pembroke-tables abounded. The carpet was of the same date as the

curtains, and was thread-bare in many places; and in others was

covered with drugget. Stands of plants, great jars of flowers,

old Indian china and cabinets gave the room the pleasant aspect

it certainly had. And to add to it, there were five high, long

windows on one side of the room, all opening to the prettiest

bit of flower-garden in the grounds--or what was considered as

such--brilliant-coloured, geometrically-shaped beds, converging

to a sun-dial in the midst. The Squire came in abruptly, and in

his morning dress; he stood at the door, as if surprised at the

white-robed stranger in possession of his hearth. Then, suddenly

remembering himself, but not before Molly had begun to feel very hot,

he said--

"Why, God bless my soul, I'd quite forgotten you; you're Miss Gibson,

Gibson's daughter, aren't you? Come to pay us a visit? I'm sure I'm

very glad to see you, my dear."

By this time, they had met in the middle of the room, and he was

shaking Molly's hand with vehement friendliness, intended to make up

for his not knowing her at first.

"I must go and dress, though," said he, looking at his soiled

gaiters. "Madam likes it. It's one of her fine London ways, and she's

broken me into it at last. Very good plan, though, and quite right

to make oneself fit for ladies' society. Does your father dress for

dinner, Miss Gibson?" He did not stay to wait for her answer, but

hastened away to perform his toilette.

They dined at a small table in a great large room. There were so few

articles of furniture in it, and the apartment itself was so vast,

that Molly longed for the snugness of the home dining-room; nay,

it is to be feared that, before the stately dinner at Hamley Hall

came to an end, she even regretted the crowded chairs and tables,

the hurry of eating, the quick unformal manner in which everybody

seemed to finish their meal as fast as possible, and to return to the

work they had left. She tried to think that at six o'clock all the

business of the day was ended, and that people might linger if they

chose. She measured the distance from the sideboard to the table with

her eye, and made allowances for the men who had to carry things

backwards and forwards; but, all the same, this dinner appeared to

her a wearisome business, prolonged because the Squire liked it, for

Mrs. Hamley seemed tired out. She ate even less than Molly, and sent

for fan and smelling-bottle to amuse herself with, until at length

the table-cloth was cleared away, and the dessert was put upon a

mahogany table, polished like a looking-glass.

The Squire had hitherto been too busy to talk, except about the

immediate concerns of the table, and one or two of the greatest

breaks to the usual monotony of his days; a monotony in which he

delighted, but which sometimes became oppressive to his wife. Now,

however, peeling his orange, he turned to Molly--

"To-morrow you'll have to do this for me, Miss Gibson."

"Shall I? I'll do it to-day, if you like, sir."

"No; to-day I shall treat you as a visitor, with all proper ceremony.

To-morrow I shall send you errands, and call you by your Christian

name."

"I shall like that," said Molly.

"I was wanting to call you something less formal than Miss Gibson,"

said Mrs. Hamley.

"My name is Molly. It is an old-fashioned name, and I was christened

Mary. But papa likes Molly."

"That's right. Keep to the good old fashions, my dear."

"Well, I must say I think Mary is prettier than Molly, and quite as

old a name, too," said Mrs. Hamley.

"I think it was," said Molly, lowering her voice, and dropping her

eyes, "because mamma was Mary, and I was called Molly while she

lived."

"Ah, poor thing," said the squire, not perceiving his wife's signs

to change the subject, "I remember how sorry every one was when she

died; no one thought she was delicate, she had such a fresh colour,

till all at once she popped off, as one may say."

"It must have been a terrible blow to your father," said Mrs. Hamley,

seeing that Molly did not know what to answer.

"Ay, ay. It came so sudden, so soon after they were married."

"I thought it was nearly four years," said Molly.

"And four years is soon--is a short time to a couple who look to

spending their lifetime together. Every one thought Gibson would have

married again."

"Hush," said Mrs. Hamley, seeing in Molly's eyes and change of colour

how completely this was a new idea to her. But the squire was not so

easily stopped.

"Well--I'd perhaps better not have said it, but it's the truth; they

did. He's not likely to marry now, so one may say it out. Why, your

father is past forty, isn't he?"

"Forty-three. I don't believe he ever thought of marrying again,"

said Molly, recurring to the idea, as one does to that of danger

which has passed by, without one's being aware of it.

"No! I don't believe he did, my dear. He looks to me just like a man

who would be constant to the memory of his wife. You must not mind

what the squire says."

"Ah! you'd better go away, if you're going to teach Miss Gibson such

treason as that against the master of the house."

Molly went into the drawing-room with Mrs. Hamley, but her thoughts

did not change with the room. She could not help dwelling on the

danger which she fancied she had escaped, and was astonished at

her own stupidity at never having imagined such a possibility as

her father's second marriage. She felt that she was answering Mrs.

Hamley's remarks in a very unsatisfactory manner.

"There is papa, with the Squire!" she suddenly exclaimed. There they

were coming across the flower-garden from the stable-yard, her father

switching his boots with his riding whip, in order to make them

presentable in Mrs. Hamley's drawing-room. He looked so exactly like

his usual self, his home-self, that the seeing him in the flesh was

the most efficacious way of dispelling the phantom fears of a second

wedding, which were beginning to harass his daughter's mind; and the

pleasant conviction that he could not rest till he had come over

to see how she was going on in her new home, stole into her heart,

although he spoke but little to her, and that little was all in a

joking tone. After he had gone away, the Squire undertook to teach

her cribbage, and she was happy enough now to give him all her

attention. He kept on prattling while they played; sometimes in

relation to the cards; at others telling her of small occurrences

which he thought might interest her.

"So you don't know my boys, even by sight. I should have thought you

would have done, for they're fond enough of riding into Hollingford;

and I know Roger has often enough been to borrow books from your

father. Roger is a scientific sort of a fellow. Osborne is clever,

like his mother. I shouldn't wonder if he published a book some day.

You're not counting right, Miss Gibson. Why, I could cheat you as

easily as possible." And so on, till the butler came in with a solemn

look, placed a large prayer-book before his master, who huddled the

cards away in a hurry, as if caught in an incongruous employment; and

then the maids and men trooped in to prayers--the windows were still

open, and the sounds of the solitary corncrake, and the owl hooting

in the trees, mingled with the words spoken. Then to bed; and so

ended the day.

Molly looked out of her chamber window--leaning on the sill, and

snuffing up the night odours of the honeysuckle. The soft velvet

darkness hid everything that was at any distance from her; although

she was as conscious of their presence as if she had seen them.

"I think I shall be very happy here," was in Molly's thoughts, as she

turned away at length, and began to prepare for bed. Before long the

Squire's words, relating to her father's second marriage, came across

her, and spoilt the sweet peace of her final thoughts. "Who could he

have married?" she asked herself. "Miss Eyre? Miss Browning? Miss

Phoebe? Miss Goodenough?" One by one, each of these was rejected

for sufficient reasons. Yet the unsatisfied question rankled in her

mind, and darted out of ambush to disturb her dreams.

Mrs. Hamley did not come down to breakfast; and Molly found out

with a little dismay, that the Squire and she were to have it by

themselves. On this first morning he put aside his newspapers--one

an old established Tory journal, with all the local and county

news, which was the most interesting to him; the other the _Morning

Chronicle_, which he called his dose of bitters, and which called out

many a strong expression and tolerably pungent oath. To-day, however,

he was "on his manners," as he afterwards explained to Molly; and he

plunged about, trying to find ground for a conversation. He could

talk of his wife and his sons, his estate, and his mode of farming;

his tenants, and the mismanagement of the last county election.

Molly's interests were her father, Miss Eyre, her garden and pony;

in a fainter degree Miss Brownings, the Cumnor Charity School, and

the new gown that was to come from Miss Rose's; into the midst of

which the one great question, "Who was it that people thought it was

possible papa might marry?" kept popping up into her mouth, like a

troublesome Jack-in-the-box. For the present, however, the lid was

snapped down upon the intruder as often as he showed his head between

her teeth. They were very polite to each other during the meal; and

it was not a little tiresome to both. When it was ended the Squire

withdrew into his study to read the untasted newspapers. It was

the custom to call the room in which Squire Hamley kept his coats,

boots, and gaiters, his different sticks and favourite spud, his

gun and fishing-rods, "the study." There was a bureau in it, and a

three-cornered arm-chair, but no books were visible. The greater part

of them were kept in a large, musty-smelling room, in an unfrequented

part of the house; so unfrequented that the housemaid often neglected

to open the window-shutters, which looked into a part of the grounds

over-grown with the luxuriant growth of shrubs. Indeed, it was a

tradition in the servants' hall that, in the late squire's time--he

who had been plucked at college--the library windows had been boarded

up to avoid paying the window-tax. And when the "young gentlemen"

were at home the housemaid, without a single direction to that

effect, was regular in her charge of this room; opened the windows

and lighted fires daily, and dusted the handsomely-bound volumes,

which were really a very fair collection of the standard literature

in the middle of the last century. All the books that had been

purchased since that time were held in small book-cases between

each two of the drawing-room windows, and in Mrs. Hamley's own

sitting-room upstairs. Those in the drawing-room were quite enough to

employ Molly; indeed, she was so deep in one of Sir Walter Scott's

novels that she jumped as if she had been shot, when an hour or so

after breakfast the Squire came to the gravel-path outside one of the

windows, and called to ask her if she would like to come out of doors

and go about the garden and home-fields with him.

"It must be a little dull for you, my girl, all by yourself, with

nothing but books to look at, in the mornings here; but you see,

madam has a fancy for being quiet in the mornings: she told your

father about it, and so did I, but I felt sorry for you all the same,

when I saw you sitting on the ground all alone in the drawing-room."

Molly had been in the very middle of the _Bride of Lammermoor_, and

would gladly have stayed in-doors to finish it, but she felt the

squire's kindness all the same. They went in and out of old-fashioned

greenhouses, over trim lawns, the Squire unlocked the great walled

kitchen-garden, and went about giving directions to gardeners; and

all the time Molly followed him like a little dog, her mind quite

full of "Ravenswood" and "Lucy Ashton." Presently, every place near

the house had been inspected and regulated, and the Squire was more

at liberty to give his attention to his companion, as they passed

through the little wood that separated the gardens from the adjoining

fields. Molly, too, plucked away her thoughts from the seventeenth

century; and, somehow or other, that one question, which had so

haunted her before, came out of her lips before she was aware--a

literal impromptu,--

"Who did people think papa would marry? That time--long ago--soon

after mamma died?"

She dropped her voice very soft and low, as she spoke the last words.

The Squire turned round upon her, and looked at her face, he knew not

why. It was very grave, a little pale, but her steady eyes almost

commanded some kind of answer.

"Whew," said he, whistling to gain time; not that he had anything

definite to say, for no one had ever had any reason to join Mr.

Gibson's name with any known lady: it was only a loose conjecture

that had been hazarded on the probabilities--a young widower, with a

little girl.

"I never heard of any one--his name was never coupled with any

lady's--'twas only in the nature of things that he should marry

again; he may do it yet, for aught I know, and I don't think it would

be a bad move either. I told him so, the last time but one he was

here."

"And what did he say?" asked breathless Molly.

"Oh: he only smiled and said nothing. You shouldn't take up words so

seriously, my dear. Very likely he may never think of marrying again,

and if he did, it would be a very good thing both for him and for

you!"

Molly muttered something, as if to herself, but the Squire might have

heard it if he had chosen. As it was, he wisely turned the current of

the conversation.

"Look at that!" he said, as they suddenly came upon the mere, or

large pond. There was a small island in the middle of the glassy

water, on which grew tall trees, dark Scotch firs in the centre,

silvery shimmering willows close to the water's edge. "We must get

you punted over there, some of these days. I'm not fond of using the

boat at this time of the year, because the young birds are still in

the nests among the reeds and water-plants; but we'll go. There are

coots and grebes."

"Oh, look, there's a swan!"

"Yes; there are two pair of them here. And in those trees there's

both a rookery and a heronry; the herons ought to be here by now, for

they're off to the sea in August, but I've not seen one yet. Stay!

isn't that one--that fellow on a stone, with his long neck bent down,

looking into the water?"

"Yes! I think so. I have never seen a heron, only pictures of them."

"They and the rooks are always at war, which doesn't do for such near

neighbours. If both herons leave the nest they are building, the

rooks come and tear it to pieces; and once Roger showed me a long

straggling fellow of a heron, with a flight of rooks after him, with

no friendly purpose in their minds, I'll be bound. Roger knows a deal

of natural history, and finds out queer things sometimes. He'd have

been off a dozen times during this walk of ours, if he'd been here:

his eyes are always wandering about, and see twenty things where I

only see one. Why! I've known him bolt into a copse because he saw

something fifteen yards off--some plant, maybe, which he'd tell me

was very rare, though I should say I'd seen its marrow at every turn

in the woods; and, if we came upon such a thing as this," touching

a delicate film of a cobweb upon a leaf with his stick, as he spoke,

"why, he could tell you what insect or spider made it, and if it

lived in rotten fir-wood, or in a cranny of good sound timber, or

deep down in the ground, or up in the sky, or anywhere. It's a pity

they don't take honours in Natural History at Cambridge. Roger would

be safe enough if they did."

"Mr. Osborne Hamley is very clever, is he not?" Molly asked, timidly.

"Oh, yes. Osborne's a bit of a genius. His mother looks for great

things from Osborne. I'm rather proud of him myself. He'll get a

Trinity fellowship, if they play him fair. As I was saying at the

magistrates' meeting yesterday, 'I've got a son who will make a noise

at Cambridge, or I'm very much mistaken.' Now, isn't it a queer quip

of Nature," continued the squire, turning his honest face towards

Molly, as if he was going to impart a new idea to her, "that I, a

Hamley of Hamley, straight in descent from nobody knows where--the

Heptarchy, they say--What's the date of the Heptarchy?"

"I don't know," said Molly, startled at being thus appealed to.

"Well! it was some time before King Alfred, because he was the

King of all England, you know; but, as I was saying, here am I, of

as good and as old a descent as any man in England, and I doubt

if a stranger, to look at me, would take me for a gentleman, with

my red face, great hands and feet, and thick figure, fourteen

stone, and never less than twelve even when I was a young man; and

there's Osborne, who takes after his mother, who couldn't tell her

great-grandfather from Adam, bless her; and Osborne has a girl's

delicate face, and a slight make, and hands and feet as small as a

lady's. He takes after madam's side, who, as I said, can't tell who

was her grandfather. Now, Roger is like me, a Hamley of Hamley, and

no one who sees him in the street will ever think that red-brown,

big-boned, clumsy chap is of gentle blood. Yet all those Cumnor

people, you make such ado of in Hollingford, are mere muck of

yesterday. I was talking to madam the other day about Osborne's

marrying a daughter of Lord Hollingford's--that's to say, if he had

a daughter--he's only got boys, as it happens; but I'm not sure if

I should consent to it. I really am not sure; for you see Osborne

will have had a first-rate education, and his family dates from the

Heptarchy, while I should be glad to know where the Cumnor folk were

in the time of Queen Anne?" He walked on, pondering the question of

whether he could have given his consent to this impossible marriage;

and after some time, and when Molly had quite forgotten the subject

to which he alluded, he broke out with--"No! I'm sure I should have

looked higher. So, perhaps, it's as well my Lord Hollingford has only

boys."

After a while, he thanked Molly for her companionship, with

old-fashioned courtesy; and told her that he thought, by this time,

madam would be up and dressed, and glad to have her young visitor

with her. He pointed out the deep purple house, with its stone

facings, as it was seen at some distance between the trees, and

watched her protectingly on her way along the field-paths.

"That's a nice girl of Gibson's," quoth he to himself. "But what a

tight hold the wench got of the notion of his marrying again! One had

need be on one's guard as to what one says before her. To think of

her never having thought of the chance of a stepmother. To be sure, a

stepmother to a girl is a different thing to a second wife to a man!"