‘Where is the side-saddle to come from?’
‘To be sure the old one won’t fit that great Irish mare. But I’m not particular, papa. I think I could manage somehow.’
‘Thank you. But I’m not quite going to return into barbarism. It may be a depraved taste, but I should like to see my daughter properly mounted.’
‘Think of riding together down the lanes—why, the dog-roses must be all out in flower, and the honeysuckles, and the hay—how I should like to see Merriman’s farm again! Papa, do let me have one ride with you! Please do. I am sure we can manage it somehow.’
And ‘somehow’ it was managed. ‘Somehow’ all Molly’s wishes came to pass; there was only one little drawback to this week of holiday and happy intercourse with her father. Everybody would ask them out to tea. They were quite like bride and bridegroom; for the fact was, that the late dinners which Mrs. Gibson had introduced into her own house, were a great inconvenience in the calculations of the small tea-drinkings at Hollingford. How ask people to tea at six, who dined at that hour? How, when they refused cake and sandwiches at half-past eight, how induce other people who were really hungry to commit a vulgarity before those calm and scornful eyes? So there had been a great lull of invitations for the Gibsons to Hollingford tea-parties. Mrs. Gibson, whose object was to squeeze herself into ‘county society,’ had taken this being left out of the smaller festivities with great equanimity; but Molly missed the kind homeliness of the parties to which she had gone from time to time as long as she could remember; and though, as each three-cornered note was brought in, she grumbled a little over the loss of another charming evening with her father, she really was glad to go again in the old way among old friends. Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe were especially compassionate towards her in her loneliness. If they had had their will she would have dined there every day; and she had to call upon them very frequently in order to prevent their being hurt at her declining the dinners. Mrs. Gibson wrote twice during her week’s absence to her husband. That piece of news was quite satisfactory to the Miss Brownings, who had of late held themselves a great deal aloof from a house where they chose to suppose that their presence was not wanted. In their winter evenings they had often talked over Mr. Gibson’s household, and, having little besides conjecture to go upon, they found the subject interminable, as they could vary the possibilities every day. One of their wonders was how Mr. and Mrs. Gibson really got on together; another was whether Mrs. Gibson was extravagant or not. Now two letters during the week of her absence showed what was in those days considered a very proper amount of conjugal affection. Yet not too much—at elevenpence-halfpenny postage. A third letter would have been extravagant. Sister looked to sister with an approving nod as Molly named the second letter, which arrived in Hollingford the very day before Mrs. Gibson was to return. They had settled between themselves that two letters would show the right amount of good feeling and proper understanding in the Gibson family: more would have been extravagant; only one would have been a mere matter of duty. There had been rather a question between Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe as to which person the second letter (supposing it came) was to be addressed to. It would be very conjugal to write twice to Mr. Gibson; and yet it would be very pretty if Molly came in for her share.
‘You’ve had another letter, you say, my dear?’ asked Miss Browning. ‘I daresay Mrs. Gibson has written to you this time?’
‘It is a large sheet, and Cynthia has written on one half to me, and all the rest is to papa.’
‘A very nice arrangement, I’m sure. And what does Cynthia say? Is she enjoying herself?’
‘Oh, yes, I think so. They’ve had a dinner-party; and one night, when mamma was at Lady Cumnor’s, Cynthia went to the play with her cousins.’
‘Upon my word! and all in one week? I do call that dissipation. Why, Thursday would be taken up with the journey, and Friday with resting, and Sunday is Sunday all the world over; and they must have written on Tuesday. Well! I hope Cynthia won’t find Hollingford dull, that’s all, when she comes back.’
‘I don’t think it’s likely,’ said Miss Phoebe, with a little simper and a knowing look, which sat oddly on her kindly innocent face. ‘You see a great deal of Mr. Preston, don’t you, Molly?’
‘Mr. Preston!’ said Molly, flushing up with surprise. ‘No! not much. He’s been at Ashcombe all winter, you know! He has but just come back to settle here. What should make you think so?’
‘Oh! a little bird told us,’ said Miss Browning. Molly knew that little bird from her childhood, and had always hated it, and longed to wring its neck. Why could not people speak out and say that they did not mean to give up the name of their informant? But it was a very favourite form of fiction with the Miss Brownings, and to Miss Phoebe it was the very acme of wit.
‘The little bird was flying about one day in Heath Lane, and it saw Mr. Preston and a young lady—we won’t say who—walking together in a very friendly manner, that is to say, he was on horseback; but the path is raised above the road just where there is the little wooden bridge over the brook_______’
‘Perhaps Molly is in the secret, and we ought not to ask her about it,’ said Miss Phoebe, seeing Molly’s extreme discomfiture and annoyance.
‘It can be no great secret,’ said Miss Browning, dropping the little-bird formula, and assuming an air of dignified reproval at Miss Phoebe’s interruption, ‘for Miss Hornblower says Mr. Preston owns to being engaged________’
‘At any rate, it is not to Cynthia, that I know positively,’ said Molly, with some vehemence. ‘And pray put a stop to any such reports; you don’t know what mischief they may do. I do so hate that kind of chatter!’ It was not very respectful of Molly to speak in this way, to be sure, but she thought only of Roger; and the distress any such reports might cause, should he ever hear of them (in the centre of Africa!) made her colour up scarlet with vexation.
‘Heighty-teighty! Miss Molly! don’t you remember that I am old enough to be your mother, and that it is not pretty behaviour to speak so to us—to me! “Chatter” to be sure. Really, Molly—’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Molly, only half-penitent.
‘I dare say you did not mean to speak so to sister,’ said Miss Phoebe, trying to make peace.
Molly did not answer all at once. She wanted to explain how much mischief might be done by such reports.
‘But don’t you see,’ she went on, still flushed by vexation, ‘how bad it is to talk of such things in such a way? Supposing one of them cared for some one else, and that might happen, you know; Mr. Preston, for instance, may be engaged to some one else?
‘Molly! I pity the woman! Indeed I do. I have a very poor opinion of Mr. Preston,’ said Miss Browning, in a warning tone of voice; for a new idea had come into her head.
‘Well, but the woman, or young lady, would not like to hear such reports about Mr. Preston.’
‘Perhaps not. But for all that, take my word for it, he’s a great flirt, and young ladies had better not have much to do with him.’
‘I dare say it was all accident their meeting in Heath Lane,’ said Miss Phoebe.
‘I know nothing about it,’ said Molly, ‘and I dare say I have been impertinent, only please don’t talk about it any more. I have my reasons for asking you.’ She got up, for by the striking of the church clock she had just found out that it was later than she had thought, and she knew that her father would be at home by this time. She bent down and kissed Miss Browning’s grave and passive face.