‘There are some letters,’ said she: ‘may I read any of them?’ At another time she would not have asked; but she was driven to it now by her impatience of the speechless grief of the old man.
‘Aye, read ’em, read ‘em,’ said he. ‘Maybe you can. I can only pick out a word here and there. I put em there for you to look at; and tell me what is in ’em.’
Molly’s knowledge of written French of the present day was not so great as her knowledge of the French of the Mémoires de Sully, and neither the spelling nor the writing of the letters was of the best; but she managed to translate into good enough colloquial English some innocent sentences of love, and submission to Osborne’s will—as if his judgment was infallible—and of faith in his purposes—little sentences in ‘little language’ that went home to the squire’s heart. Perhaps if Molly had read French more easily she might not have translated them into such touching, homely, broken words. Here and there, there were expressions in English; these the hungry-hearted squire had read while waiting for Molly’s return. Every time she stopped, he said ‘Go on.’ He kept his face shaded, and only repeated those two words at every pause. She got up to find some more of Aimée’s letters. In examining the papers, she came upon one in particular. ‘Have you seen this, sir? This certificate of baptism’ (reading aloud) ‘of Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley, born June 21, 183-, child of Osborne Hamley and Marie-Aimée his wife—’
‘Give it me,’ said the squire, his voice breaking now, and stretching forth his eager hand. “‘Roger,” that’s me, “Stephen,” that’s my poor old father: he died when he was not so old as I am; but I’ve always thought on him as very old. He was main and fond of Osborne, when he was quite a little one. It’s good of the lad to have thought on my father Stephen. Aye! that was his name. And Osborne—Osborne Hamley! One Osborne Hamley lies dead on his bed—and t’other—t‘other I’ve never seen, and never heard on till to-day. He must be called Osborne, Molly. There is a Roger—there’s two for that matter; but one is a good-for-nothing old man; and there’s never an Osborne any more, unless this little thing is called Osborne; we’ll have him here, and get a nurse for him; and make his mother comfortable for life in her own country. I’ll keep this, Molly. You’re a good lass for finding it. Osborne Hamley! And if God will give me grace, he shall never hear a cross word from me—never! He shan’t be afeard of me. Oh, my Osborne, my Osborne’ (he burst out), ‘do you know how bitter and sore is my heart for every hard word as. I ever spoke to you? Do you know now how I loved you—my boy—my boy?’
From the general tone of the letters, Molly doubted if the mother would consent, so easily as the squire seemed to expect, to be parted from her child. They were not very wise, perhaps (though of this Molly never thought), but a heart full of love spoke tender words in every line. Still, it was not for Molly to talk of this doubt of hers just then; but rather to dwell on the probable graces and charms of the little Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley. She let the squire exhaust himself in wondering as to the particulars of every event, helping him out in conjectures; and both of them, from their imperfect knowledge of possibilities, made the most curious, fantastic, and improbable guesses at the truth. And so that day passed over, and the night came.
There were not many people who had any claim to be invited to the funeral, and of these Mr. Gibson and the squire’s hereditary man of business had taken charge. But when Mr. Gibson came, early on the following morning, Molly referred the question to him, which had suggested itself to her mind, though apparently not to the squire’s, what intimation of her loss should be sent to the widow, living solitary near Winchester, watching, and waiting, if not for his coming who lay dead in his distant home, at least for his letters. One from her had already come, in her foreign hand-writing, to the post office to which all her communications were usually sent but of course they at the Hall knew nothing of this.
‘She must be told,’ said Mr. Gibson, musing.
‘Yes, she must,’ replied his daughter. ‘But how?’
‘A day or two of waiting will do no harm,’ said he, almost as if he was anxious to delay the solution of the problem. ‘It will make her anxious, poor thing, and all sorts of gloomy possibilities will suggest themselves to her mind—amongst them the truth; it will be a kind of preparation.’
‘For what? Something must be done at last,’ said Molly.
‘Yes; true. Suppose you write, and say he’s very ill; write to-morrow. I dare say they’ve indulged themselves in daily postage, and then she’ll have had three days’ silence. You say how you come to know all you do about it; I think she ought to know he is very ill—in great danger, if you like: and you can follow it up next day with the full truth. I wouldn’t worry the squire about it. After the funeral we will have a talk about the child.’
‘She will never part with it,’ said Molly.
‘Whew! Till I see the woman I can’t tell,’ said her father; ‘some women would. It will be well provided for, according to what you say. And she’s a foreigner, and may very likely wish to go back to her own people and kindred. There’s much to be said on both sides.’
‘So you always say, papa. But in this case I think you’ll find I’m right. I judge from her letters; but I think I’m right.’
‘So you always say, daughter. Time will show. So the child is a boy? Mrs. Gibson told me particularly to ask. It will go far to reconciling her to Cynthia’s dismissal of Roger. But indeed it is quite as well for both of them, though of course he will be a long time before he thinks so. They were not suited to each other. Poor Roger! It was hard work writing to him yesterday; and who knows what may have become of him! Well, well! one has to get through the world somehow. I’m glad, however, this little lad has turned up to be the heir, I shouldn’t have liked the property to go to the Irish Hamleys, who are the next heirs, as Osborne once told me. Now write that letter, Molly, to the poor little Frenchwoman out yonder. It will prepare her for it; and we must think a bit how to spare her the shock, for Osborne’s sake.’
The writing this letter was rather difficult work for Molly, and she tore up two or three copies before she could manage it to her satisfaction; and at last, in despair of ever doing it better, she sent it off without re-reading it. The next day was easier; the fact of Osborne’s death was told briefly and tenderly. But when this second letter was sent off, Molly’s heart began to bleed for the poor creature, bereft of her husband in a foreign land, and he at a distance from her, dead and buried without her ever having had the chance of printing his dear features on her memory by one last long lingering look. With her thoughts full of the unknown Aimée, Molly talked much about her that day to the squire. He would listen for ever to any conjecture, however wild, about the grandchild, but perpetually winced away from all discourse about ‘the Frenchwoman,’ as he called her; not unkindly, but to his mind she was simply the Frenchwoman—chattering, dark-eyed, demonstrative, and possibly even rouged. He would treat her with respect as his son’s widow, and would try even not to think upon the female inveiglement in which he believed. He would make her an allowance to the extent of his duty: but he hoped and trusted he might never be called upon to see her. His solicitor, Gibson, anybody and everybody, should be called upon to form a phalanx of defence against that danger.