‘I say again, father, I choose my wife for myself, and I don’t admit any man’s right of dictation.’
‘Well, well!’ said the squire, getting a little angry in turn. ‘If I’m not to be father in this matter, thou shan’t be son. Go against me in what I’ve set my heart on, and you’ll find there’s the devil to pay, that’s all. But don’t let us get angry, it’s Sunday afternoon for one thing, and it’s a sin; and besides that, I’ve not finished my story.’
For Osborne had taken up his book again, and under pretence of reading, was fuming to himself He hardly put it away even at his father’s request.
‘As I was saying, Gibson said, when first we spoke about it, that there was nothing on foot between any of you four, and that if there was, he would let me know; so by and by he comes and tells me of this.’
‘Of what—I don’t understand how far it has gone?’
There was a tone in Osborne’s voice the squire did not quite like; and he began answering rather angrily.
‘Of this, to be sure—of what I’m telling you—of Roger going and making love to this girl, that day he left, after he had gone away from here, and was waiting for the “Umpire” in Hollingford. One would think you quite stupid at times, Osborne.’
‘I can only say that these details are quite new to me; you never mentioned them before, I assure you.’
‘Well; never mind whether I did or not. I’m sure I said Roger was attached to Miss Kirkpatrick, and be hanged to her; and you might have understood all the rest as a matter of course.’
‘Possibly,’ said Osborne, politely. ‘May I ask if Miss Kirkpatrick, who appeared to me to be a very nice girl, responds to Roger’s affection?’
‘Fast enough, I’ll be bound,’ said the squire, sulkily. ‘A Hamley of Hamley is not to be had every day. Now, I’ll tell you what, Osborne, you’re the only marriageable one left in the market, and I want to hoist the old family up again. Don’t go against me in this; it really will break my heart if you do.’
‘Father, don’t talk so,’ said Osborne. ‘I will do anything I can to oblige you, except________’
‘Except the only thing I’ve set my heart on your doing?’
‘Well, well, let it alone for the present. There’s no question of my marrying just at this moment. I’m out of health, and I’m not up to going into society, and meeting young ladies and all that sort of thing, even if I had an opening into fitting society.’
‘You should have an opening fast enough. There’ll be more money coming in in a year or two, please God. And as for your health, why, what’s to make you well, if you cower over the fire all day, and shudder away from a good honest tankard as if it were poison?’
‘So it is to me,’ said Osborne, languidly, playing with his book as if he wanted to end the conversation and take it up again. The squire saw the movements, and understood them.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘I’ll go and have a talk with Will about poor old Black Bess. It’s Sunday work enough, asking after a dumb animal’s aches and pains.’
But after his father had left the room Osborne did not take up his book again. He laid it down on the table by him, leant back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand. He was in a state of health which made him despondent about many things, though, least of all, about what was most in danger. The long concealment of his marriage from his father made the disclosure of it far, far more difficult than it would have been at first. Unsupported by Roger, how could he explain it all to one so passionate as the squire? how tell of the temptation, the stolen marriage, the consequent happiness, and alas! the consequent suffering?—for Osborne had suffered, and did suffer, greatly in the untoward circumstances in which he had placed himself. He saw no way out of it all, excepting by the one strong stroke of which he felt himself incapable. So with a heavy heart he addressed himself to his book again. Everything seemed to come in his way, and he was not strong enough in character to overcome obstacles. The only overt step he took in consequence of what he had heard from his father, was to ride over to Hollingford the first fine day after he had received the news, and go to see Cynthia and the Gibsons. He had not been there for a long time; bad weather and languor combined had prevented him. He found them full of preparations and discussions about Cynthia’s visit to London; and she herself not at all in the sentimental mood proper to respond to his delicate intimations of how glad he was in his brother’s joy. Indeed, it was so long after the time, that Cynthia scarcely perceived that to him the intelligence was recent, and that the first bloom of his emotions had not yet passed away. With her head a little on one side, she was contemplating the effect of a knot of ribbons, when he began, in a low whisper, and leaning forward towards her as he spoke—‘Cynthia—I may call you Cynthia now, mayn’t I?—I’m so glad of this news; I’ve only just heard of it, but I’m so glad!’
‘What news do you mean?’ She had her suspicions; but she was annoyed to think that from one person her secret was passing to another and another, till, in fact, it was becoming no secret at all. Still, Cynthia could always conceal her annoyance when she chose. ‘Why are you to begin calling me Cynthia now?’ she went on, smiling. ‘The terrible word has slipped out from between your lips before, do you know?’
This light way of taking his tender congratulation did not quite please Osborne, who was in a sentimental mood, and for a minute or so he remained silent. Then, having finished making her bow of ribbon, she turned to him, and continued in a quick low voice, anxious to take advantage of a tête-à-tête between her mother and Molly—
‘I think I can guess why you made that pretty little speech just now? But do you know you ought not to have been told? And, moreover, things are not quite arrived at the solemnity, of—of—well—an engagement. He would not have it so. Now, I shan’t say any more; and you must not. Pray remember you ought not to have known; it is my own secret, and I particularly wished it not to be spoken about; and I don’t like it’s being so talked about. Oh, the leaking of water through one small hole!’
And then she plunged into the talk of the other two, making the conversation general. Osborne was rather discomfited at the non-success of his congratulations; he had pictured to himself the unbosoming of a lovesick girl, full of rapture, and glad of a sympathizing confidant. He little knew Cynthia’s nature. The more she suspected that she was called upon for a display of emotion, the less would she show; and her emotions were generally under the control of her will. He had made an effort to come and see her; and now he leant back in his chair, weary and a little dispirited.
‘You poor dear young man,’ said Mrs. Gibson, coming up to him with her soft, soothing manner; ‘how tired you look! Do take some of that eau-de-Cologne and bathe your forehead. This spring weather overcomes me too. “Primavera” I think the Italians call it. But it is very tiring for delicate constitutions, as much from its associations as from its variableness of temperature. It makes me sigh perpetually; but then I am so sensitive. Dear Lady Cumnor always used to say I was like a thermometer. You’ve heard how ill she has been?’
‘No,’ said Osborne, not very much caring either.
‘Oh, yes, she is better now; but the anxiety about her has tried me so: detained here by what are, of course, my duties, but far away from all intelligence, and not knowing what the next post might bring.’
‘Where was she then?’ asked Osborne, becoming a little more sympathetic.
‘At Spa. Such a distance off! Three days’ post! Can’t you conceive the trial? Living with her as I did for years; bound up in the family as I was.’