‘God bless you, miss,’ said he; ‘make him touch a drop o’ this: he’s gone since breakfast without food, and it’s past one in the morning now.’
He softly removed the cover, and Molly took the basin back with her to her place at the squire’s side. She did not speak, for she did not well know what to say, or how to present this homely want of nature before one so rapt in grief. But she put a spoonful to his lips, and touched them with the savoury food, as if he had been a sick child, and she the nurse; and instinctively he took down the first spoonful of the soup. But in a minute he said, with a sort of cry, and almost overturning the basin Molly held, by his passionate gesture as he pointed to the bed,—
‘He will never eat again—never.’
Then he threw himself across the corpse, and wept in such a terrible manner that Molly trembled lest he also should die—should break his heart there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of her tears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon looking through the unclosed window, with passionless stare. Her father stood by them both before either of them was aware.
‘Go downstairs, Molly,’ said he, gravely; but he stroked her head tenderly as she rose. ‘Go into the dining-room.’ Now she felt the reaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear as she went along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she should meet Osborne, and hear it all explained; how he came to die—what he now felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to the dining-room-the last few steps with a rush of terror—senseless terror of what might be behind her; and there she found supper laid out, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about, decanting some wine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet place, and weep away her over-excitement; but she could hardly do so there. She only felt very much tired, and to care for nothing in this world any more. But vividness of life came back when she found Robinson holding a glass to her lips as she sat in the great leather easy-chair, to which she had gone instinctively as to a place of rest.
‘Drink, miss. It’s good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was to eat a bit. Says he, “My daughter may have to stay here, Mr. Robinson, and she’s young for the work. Persuade her to eat something, or she’ll break down utterly.” Those was his very words.’
Molly did not say anything. She had not energy enough for resistance. She drank and she ate at the old servant’s bidding; and then she asked him to leave her alone, and went back to her easy-chair, and let herself cry, and so ease her heart.
CHAPTER 52
Squire Hamley’s Sorrow
It seemed very long before Mr. Gibson came down. He went and stood with his back to the empty fire-place, and did not speak for a minute or two.
‘He’s gone to bed,’ said he at length. ‘Robinson and I have got him there. But just as I was leaving him he called me back, and asked me to let you stop. I’m sure I don’t know—but one doesn’t like to refuse at such a time.’
‘I wish to stay,’ said Molly.
‘Do you? There’s a good girl. But how will you manage?’
‘Oh, never mind that. I can manage. Papa’—she paused—‘what did Osborne die of?’ She asked the question in a low, awe-stricken voice.
‘Something wrong about the heart. You wouldn’t understand if I told you. I apprehended it for some time; but it’s better not to talk of such things at home. When I saw him on Thursday week, he seemed better than I’ve seen him for a long time. I told Dr. Nicholls so. But one never can calculate in these complaints.’
‘You saw him on Thursday week? Why, you never mentioned it!’ said Molly.
‘No. I don’t talk of my patients at home. Besides, I didn’t want him to consider me as his doctor, but as a friend. Any alarm about his own health would only have hastened the catastrophe.’
‘Then didn’t he know that he was ill—ill of a dangerous complaint, I mean: one that might end as it has done?’
‘No; certainly not. He would only have been watching his symptoms—accelerating matters, in fact.’
‘Oh, papa!’ said Molly, shocked.
‘I’ve no time to go into the question,’ Mr. Gibson continued. ‘And until you know what has to be said on both sides, and in every instance, you are not qualified to judge. We must keep our attention on the duties in hand now. You sleep here for the remainder of the night, which is more than half gone already?’
‘Yes.’
‘Promise me to go to bed just as usual. You may not think it, but most likely you’ll go to sleep at once. People do at your age.’
‘Papa, I think I ought to tell you something. I know a great secret of Osborne’s, which I promised solemnly not to tell; but the last time I saw him I think he must have been afraid of something like this.’ A fit of sobbing came upon her, which her father was afraid would end in hysterics. But suddenly she mastered herself, and looked up into his anxious face, and smiled to reassure him.
‘I could not help it, papa!’
‘No. I know. Go on with what you were saying. You ought to be in bed; but if you’ve a secret on your mind you won’t sleep.’
‘Osborne was married,’ said she, fixing her eyes on her father. ‘That is the secret.’
‘Married! Nonsense. What makes you think so?’
‘He told me. That’s to say, I was in the library—was reading there, some time ago; and Roger came and spoke to Osborne about his wife. Roger did not see me, but Osborne did. They made me promise secrecy. I don’t think I did wrong.’
‘Don’t worry yourself about right or wrong just now; tell me more about it, at once.’
‘I knew no more till six months ago—last November, when you went up to Lady Cumnor. Then he called, and gave me his wife’s address, but still under promise of secrecy; and, excepting those two times, I have never heard any one mention the subject. I think he would have told me more that last time, only Miss Phoebe came in.’
‘Where is this wife of his?’
‘Down in the south; near Winchester, I think. He said she was a Frenchwoman and a Roman Catholic; and I think he said she was a servant,’ added Molly.
‘Phew!’ Her father made a long whistle of dismay.
‘And,’ continued Molly, ‘he spoke of a child. Now you know as much as I do, papa, except the address. I have it written down safe at home.’
Forgetting, apparently, what time of night it was, Mr. Gibson sat down, stretched out his legs before him, put his hands in his pockets, and began to think. Molly sat still without speaking, too tired to do more than wait.
‘Well!’ said he at last, jumping up, ‘nothing can be done to-night; by to-morrow morning, perhaps, I may find out. Poor little pale face!’—taking it between both his hands and kissing it; ‘poor, sweet, little pale face!’ Then he rang the bell, and told Robinson to send some maid-servant to take Miss Gibson to her room.