‘And so you went to Hamley yesterday after all?’
‘Yes; I thought you would have come. The squire seemed quite to expect you.’
‘I thought of going there at first; but I changed my mind like other people. I don’t see why women are to have a monopoly of changeableness. Well! how did it go off? Pleasantly, I suppose, for both your mother and Cynthia were in high spirits last night.’
‘Yes. The dear old squire was in his best dress and on his best behaviour, and was so prettily attentive to Cynthia, and she looked so lovely, walking about with him, and listening to all his talk about the garden and farm. Mamma was tired, and stopped indoors, so they got on very well, and saw a great deal of each other.’
‘And my little girl trotted behind?’
‘Oh, yes. You know I was almost at home, and besides—of course——’ Molly went very red, and left the sentence unfinished.
‘Do you think she’s worthy of him?’ asked her father, just as if she had completed her speech.
‘Of Roger, papa? oh, who is? But she is very sweet, and very, very charming.’
‘Very charming, if you will, but somehow I don’t quite understand her. Why does she want all this secrecy? Why was she not more eager to go and pay her duty to Roger’s father? She took it as coolly as if I’d asked her to go to church!’
‘I don’t think she did take it coolly; I believe I don’t quite understand her either, but I love her dearly all the same.’
‘Umph; I like to understand people thoroughly; but I know it’s not necessary to women. D’ye really think she’s worthy of him?’
‘Oh, papa’—said Molly, and then she stopped; she wanted to speak in favour of Cynthia, but somehow she could form no reply that pleased her to this repeated inquiry. He did not seem much to care if he got an answer or not, for he went on with his own thoughts, and the result was that he asked Molly if Cynthia had heard from Roger.
‘Yes; on Wednesday morning.’
‘Did she show it to you? But of course not. Besides, I read the squire’s letter, which told all about him.’
Now Cynthia, rather to Molly’s surprise, had told her that she might read the letter if she liked, and Molly had shrunk from availing herself of the permission, for Roger’s sake. She thought that he would probably have poured out his heart to the one sole person, and that it was not fair to listen, as it were, to his confidences.
‘Was Osborne at home?’ asked Mr. Gibson. ‘The squire said he did not think he would have come back; but the young fellow is so uncertain———’
‘No, he was still from home.’ Then Molly blushed all over crimson, for it suddenly struck her that Osborne was probably with his wife—that mysterious wife, of whose existence she was cognizant, but of whom she knew so little, and of whom her father knew nothing. Mr. Gibson noticed the blush with anxiety. What did it mean? It was troublesome enough to find that one of the squire’s precious sons had fallen in love within the prohibited ranks; and what would not have to be said and done if anything fresh were to come out between Osborne and Molly. He spoke out at once to relieve himself of this new apprehension.
‘Molly, I was taken by surprise by this affair between Cynthia and Roger Hamley—if there’s anything more on the tapisde let me know at once, honestly and openly. I know it’s an awkward question for you to reply to; but I would not ask it unless I had good reasons.’ He took her hand as he spoke. She looked up at him with clear, truthful eyes, which filled with tears as she spoke. She did not know why the tears came; perhaps it was because she was not so strong as formerly.
‘If you mean that you’re afraid that Osborne thinks of me as Roger thinks of Cynthia, papa, you are quite mistaken. Osborne and I are friends and nothing more, and never can be anything more. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘It’s quite enough little one. It’s a great relief. I don’t want to have my Molly carried off by any young man just yet; I should miss her sadly.’ He could not help saying this in the fulness of his heart just then, but he was surprised at the effect these few tender words produced. Molly threw her arms round his neck, and began to sob bitterly, her head lying on his shoulder. ‘There, there!’ said he, patting her on the back, and leading her to the sofa, ‘that will do. I get quite enough of tears in the day, shed for real causes, not to want them at home, where, I hope, they are shed for no cause at all. There’s nothing really the matter, is there, my dear?’ he continued, holding her a little away from him that he might look in her face. She smiled at him through her tears; and he did not see the look of sadness which returned to her face after he had left her.
‘Nothing, dear, dear papa—nothing now. It is such a comfort to have you all to myself—it makes me happy.’
Mr. Gibson knew all implied in these words, and felt that there was no effectual help for the state of things which had arisen from his own act. It was better for them both that they should not speak out more fully. So he kissed her, and said—
‘That’s right, dear! I can leave you in comfort now, and indeed, I’ve stayed too long already gossiping. Go out and have a walk—take Cynthia with you, if you like. I must be off. Good-bye, little one.’
His commonplace words acted like an astringent on Molly’s relaxed feelings. He intended that they should do so; it was the truest kindness to her; but he walked away from her with a sharp pang at his heart, which he turned into numbness as soon as he could by throwing himself violently into the affairs and cares of others.
CHAPTER 37
A Fluke, and What Came of It
The honour and glory of having a lover of her own was soon to fall to Molly’s share; though, to be sure, it was a little deduction to the honour that the man who came with the full intention of proposing to her, ended by making Cynthia an offer. It was Mr. Coxe, who came back to Hollingford to follow out the purpose he had announced to Mr. Gibson nearly two years before, of inducing Molly to become his wife as soon as he should have succeeded to his uncle’s estate. He was now rich, though still a red-haired, young man. He came to the ‘George’ Inn, bringing his horses and his groom; not that he was going to ride much, but that he thought that such outward signs of his riches might help on his suit; and he was so justly modest in his estimation of himself that he believed that he needed all extraneous aid. He piqued himself on his constancy; and indeed, considering that he had been so much restrained by his duty, his affection, and his expectations to his crabbed old uncle, that he had not been able to go much into society, and very rarely indeed into the company of young ladies, such fidelity to Molly was very meritorious, at least in his own eyes. Mr. Gibson too was touched by it, and made it a point of honour to give him a fair field, all the time sincerely hoping that Molly would not be such a goose as to lend a willing ear to a youth who could never remember the difference between apophysis and epiphysis. He thought it as well not to tell his wife more of Mr. Coxe’s antecedents than that he had been a former pupil; who had relinquished (all that he knew of, understood) the medical profession because an old uncle had left him enough of money to be idle. Mrs. Gibson, who felt that she had somehow lost her place in her husband’s favour, took it into her head that she could reinstate herself if she was successful in finding a good match for his daughter Molly. She knew that he had forbidden her to try for this end, as distinctly as words could express a meaning; but her own words so seldom did express her meaning, or if they did, she held to her opinions so loosely, that she had no idea but that it was the same with other people. Accordingly she gave Mr. Coxe a very sweet and gracious welcome.