‘Oh! when she once gets gossiping with the Miss Brownings, she never knows when to come home,’ said Mrs. Gibson.
‘The Miss Brownings? Oh! I’m so glad you named them! I’m very fond of them. Pecksy and Flapsy; I may call them so in Molly’s absence. I’ll go and see them before I go home, and then perhaps I shall see my dear little Molly too. Do you know, Clare, I’ve quite taken a fancy to that girl!’
So Mrs. Gibson, after all her precautions, had to submit to Lady Harriet’s leaving her half an hour earlier than she otherwise would have done in order to ‘make herself common’ (as Mrs. Gibson expressed it) by calling on the Miss Brownings.
But Molly had left before Lady Harriet arrived.
Molly went the long walk to the Holly Farm to order the damsons, out of a kind of penitence. She had felt conscious of anger at being sent out of the house by such a palpable manoeuvre as that which her stepmother had employed. Of course she did not meet Cynthia, so she went alone along the pretty lanes, with grassy sides and high-hedge banks not at all in the style of modern agriculture. At first she made herself uncomfortable with questioning herself as to how far it was right to leave unnoticed the small domestic failings—the webs, the distortions of truth which had prevailed in their household ever since her father’s second marriage. She knew that very often she longed to protest, but did not do it, from the desire of sparing her father any discord; and she saw by his face that he, too, was occasionally aware of certain things that gave him pain, as showing that his wife’s standard of conduct was not as high as he would have liked. It was a wonder to Molly whether this silence was right or wrong. With a girl’s want of toleration, and want of experience to teach her the force of circumstances, and of temptation, she had often been on the point of telling her stepmother some forcible home truths. But, possibly, her father’s example of silence, and often some piece of kindness on Mrs. Gibson’s part (for after her way, and when in a good temper, she was very kind to Molly), made her hold her tongue.
That night at dinner, Mrs. Gibson repeated the conversation between herself and Lady Harriet, giving it a very strong individual colouring, as was her wont, and telling nearly the whole of what had passed, although implying that there was a great deal said which was so purely confidential, that she was bound in honour not to repeat it. Her three auditors listened to her without interrupting her much—indeed, without bestowing extreme attention on what she was saying, until she came to the fact of Lord Hollingford’s absence in London, and the reason for it.
‘Roger Hamley going off on a scientific expedition!’ exclaimed Mr. Gibson, suddenly awakened into vivacity.
‘Yes. At least it is not settled finally; but as Lord Hollingford is the only trustee who takes any interest—and being Lord Cumnor’s son—it is next to certain.’
‘I think I must have a voice in the matter,’ said Mr. Gibson; and he relapsed into silence, keeping his ears open, however, henceforward.
‘How long will he be away?’ asked Cynthia. ‘We shall miss him sadly.’
Molly’s lips formed an acquiescing ‘yes’ to this remark, but no sound was heard. There was a buzzing in her ears as if the others were going on with the conversation, but the words they uttered seemed indistinct and blurred; they were merely conjectures, and did not interfere with the one great piece of news. To the rest of the party she appeared to be eating her dinner as usual, and, if she was silent, there was one listener the more to Mrs. Gibson’s stream of prattle, and Mr. Gibson’s and Cynthia’s remarks.
CHAPTER 33
Brightening Prospects
It was a day or two afterwards, that Mr. Gibson made time to ride round by Hamley, desirous to learn more exact particulars of this scheme for Roger than he could obtain from any extraneous source, and rather puzzled to know whether he should interfere in the project or not. The state of the case was this:—Osborne’s symptoms were, in Mr. Gibson’s opinion, signs of his having a fatal disease. Dr. Nicholls had differed from him on this head, and Mr. Gibson knew that the old physician had had long experience, and was considered very skilful in the profession. Still he believed that he himself was right, and, if so, the complaint was one which might continue for years in the same state as at present, or might end the young man’s life in an hour—a minute. Supposing that Mr. Gibson was right, would it be well for Roger to be away where no sudden calls for his presence could reach him—away for two years? Yet if the affair was concluded, the interference of a medical man might accelerate the very evil to be feared; and after all Dr. Nicholls might be right, and the symptoms might proceed from some other cause. Might? Yes. Probably did? No. Mr. Gibson could not bring himself to say yes to this latter form of sentence. So he rode on, meditating; his reins slack, his head a little bent. It was one of those still and lovely autumn days when the red and yellow leaves are hanging-pegs to dewy, brilliant gossamer-webs; when the hedges are full of trailing brambles, loaded with ripe blackberries; when the air is full of the farewell whistles and pipes of birds, clear and short—not the long full-throated warbles of spring; when the whirr of the partridge’s wing is heard in the stubble-fields, as the sharp hoof-blows fall on the paved lanes; when here and there a leaf floats and flutters down to the ground, although there is not a single breath of wind. The country surgeon felt the beauty of the seasons perhaps more than most men. He saw more of it by day, by night, in storm and sunshine, or in the still, soft cloudy weather. He never spoke about what he felt on the subject; indeed, he did not put his feelings into words, even to himself But if his mood ever approached to the sentimental it was on such days as this. He rode into the stable-yard, gave his horse to a man, and went into the house by a side entrance. In the passage he met the squire.
‘That’s capital, Gibson! what good wind blew you here? You’ll have some lunch? it’s on the table; I only just this minute left the room.’ And he kept shaking Mr. Gibson’s hand all the time till he had placed him, nothing loth, at the well-covered dining-table.
‘What’s this I hear about Roger?’ said Mr. Gibson, plunging at once into the subject.
‘Aha! so you’ve heard, have you? It’s famous, isn’t it! He’s a boy to be proud of, is old Roger. Steady Roger; we used to think him slow, but it seems to me that slow and sure wins the race. But tell me; what have you heard? how much is known? Nay, you must have a glass full. It’s old ale, such as we don’t brew nowadays; it’s as old as Osborne. We brewed it that autumn, and we called it the young squire’s ale. I thought to have tapped it on his marriage, but I don’t know when that will come to pass, so we’ve tapped it now in Roger’s honour.’
The old squire had evidently been enjoying the young squire’s ale to the verge of prudence. It was indeed as he said, ‘as strong as brandy,’ and Mr. Gibson had to sip it very carefully, as he ate his cold roast beef
‘Well! and what have you heard? There’s a deal to hear, and all good news, though I shall miss the lad, I know that.’
‘I did not know that it was settled; I only heard that it was in progress.’
‘Well, it was only in progress, as you call it, till last Tuesday. He never let me know anything about it, though; he says he thought I might be fidgety with thinking of the pros and cons. So I never knew a word on’t till I had a letter from my Lord Hollingford—where is it?’ pulling out a great black leathern receptacle for all manner of papers. And putting on his spectacles, he read aloud their headings.
‘ “Measurement of timber, new railways,” “drench for cows, from Farmer Hayes,” “Dobson’s accounts,”—’um ‘um—here it is. Now read that letter,’ handing it to Mr. Gibson.