‘My dear child, she’s getting past wanting any one! The keenness of earthly feelings is deadened.’
‘Papa, that is worst of all. I cannot bear it. I won’t believe it. She may not ask for me again, and may quite forget me; but I’m sure, to the very last, if the medicines don’t stupefy her, she will look round for the squire and her children. For poor Osborne most of all; because he’s in sorrow.’
Mr. Gibson shook his head, but said nothing in reply. In a minute or two he asked,—
‘I don’t like to take you away while you even fancy you can be of use or comfort to one who has been so kind to you; but, if she hasn’t wanted you before Friday, will you be convinced, will you come home willingly?’
‘If I go then, I may see her once again, even if she hasn’t asked for me?’ inquired Molly.
‘Yes, of course. You must make no noise, no step; but you may go in and see her. I must tell you, I’m almost certain she won’t ask for you.’
‘But she may, papa. I will go home on Friday, if she does not. I think she will.’
So Molly hung about the house, trying to do all she could out of the sick-room, for the comfort of those in it. They only came out for meals, or for necessary business, and found little time for talking to her, so her life was solitary enough, waiting for the call that never came. The evening of the day on which she had had the above conversation with Roger, Osborne arrived. He came straight into the drawing-room, where Molly was seated on the rug, reading by fire-light, as she did not like to ring for candles merely for her own use. Osborne came in, with a kind of hurry, which almost made him appear as if he would trip himself up, and fall down. Molly rose. He had not noticed her before; now he came forwards, and took hold of both her hands, leading her into the full flickering light, and straining his eyes to look into her face.
‘How is she? You will tell me—you must know the truth! I’ve travelled day and night since I got your father’s letter.’
Before she could frame her answer, he had sat down in the nearest chair, covering his eyes with his hand.
‘She’s very ill,’ said Molly. ‘That you know; but I don’t think she suffers much pain. She has wanted you sadly.’
He groaned aloud. ‘My father forbade me to come.’
‘I know!’ said Molly, anxious to prevent his self-reproach. ‘Your brother was away, too. I think no one knew how ill she was—she had been an invalid for so long.’
‘You know—Yes! she told you a great deal—she was very fond of you. And God knows how I loved her. If I had not been forbidden to come home, I should have told her all. Does my father know of my coming now?’
‘Yes,’ said Molly; ‘I told him papa had sent for you.’
Just at that moment the squire came in. He had not heard of Osborne’s arrival, and was seeking Molly to ask her to write a letter for him.
Osborne did not stand up when his father entered. He was too much exhausted, too much oppressed by his feelings, and also too much estranged by his father’s angry, suspicious letters. If he had come forward with any manifestation of feeling at this moment, everything might have been different. But he waited for his father to see him before he uttered a word. All that the squire said when his eye fell upon him at last was—
‘You here, sir!’
And, breaking off in the directions he was giving to Molly, he abruptly left the room. All the time his heart was yearning after his first-born; but mutual pride kept them asunder. Yet he went straight to the butler, and asked him when Mr. Osborne had arrived, and how he had come, and if he had had any refreshment—dinner or what—since his arrival?
‘For I think I forget everything now!’ said the poor squire, putting his hand up to his head. ‘For the life of me, I can’t remember whether we’ve had dinner or not; these long nights, and all this sorrow and watching, quite bewilder me.’
‘Perhaps, sir, you will take some dinner with Mr. Osborne. Mrs. Morgan is sending up his directly. You hardly sat down at dinner-time, sir, you thought my mistress wanted something.’
‘Aye! I remember now. No! I won’t have any more. Give Mr. Osborne what wine he chooses. Perhaps he can eat and drink.’ So the squire went away upstairs with bitterness as well as sorrow in his heart.
When lights were brought, Molly was struck with the change in Osborne. He looked haggard and worn; perhaps with travelling and anxiety. Not quite such a dainty gentleman either, as Molly had thought him, when she had last seen him calling on her stepmother, two months before. But she liked him better now. The tone of his remarks pleased her more. He was simpler, and less ashamed of showing his feelings. He asked after Roger in a warm, longing kind of way. Roger was out: he had ridden to Ashcombe to transact some business for the squire. Osborne evidently wished for his return; and hung about restlessly in the drawing-room after he had dined.
‘You are sure I may not see her to-night?’ he asked Molly, for the third or fourth time.
‘No, indeed. I will go up again if you like it. But Mrs. Jones, the nurse Dr. Nicholls sent, is a very decided person. I went up while you were at dinner, and Mrs. Hamley had just taken her drops, and was on no account to be disturbed by seeing any one, much less by any excitement.’
Osborne kept walking up and down the long drawing-room, half talking to himself, half to Molly.
‘I wish Roger would come. He seems to be the only one to give me a welcome. Does my father always live upstairs in my mother’s rooms, Miss Gibson?’
‘He has done since her last attack. I believe he reproaches himself for not having been enough alarmed before.’
‘You heard all the words he said to me; they were not much of a welcome, were they? And my dear mother, who always—whether I was to blame or not——I suppose Roger is sure to come home to-night?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘You are staying here, are you not? Do you often see my mother, or does this omnipotent nurse keep you out too?’
‘Mrs. Hamley hasn’t asked for me for three days now, and I don’t go into her room unless she asks. I’m leaving on Friday, I believe.’
‘My mother was very fond of you, I know.’
After a while he said, in a voice that had a great deal of sensitive pain in its tone,—
‘I suppose—do you know whether she is quite conscious—quite herself?’
‘Not always conscious,’ said Molly, tenderly. ‘She has to take so many opiates. But she never wanders, only forgets, and sleeps.’
‘Oh, mother, mother!’ said he, stopping suddenly, and hanging over the fire, his hands on the chimney-piece.
When Roger came home, Molly thought it time to retire. Poor girl! it was getting time for her to leave this scene of distress in which she could be of no use. She sobbed herself to sleep this Tuesday night. Two days more, and it would be Friday; and she would have to wrench up the roots she had shot down into this ground. The weather was bright the next morning; and morning and sunny weather cheer up young hearts. Molly sat in the dining-room making tea for the gentlemen as they came down. She could not help hoping that the squire and Osborne might come to a better understanding before she left; for after all, in the dissension between father and son, lay a bitterer sting than in the illness sent by God. But though they met at the breakfast-table, they purposely avoided addressing each other. Perhaps the natural subject of conversation between the two, at such a time, would have been Osborne’s long journey the night before; but he had never spoken of the place he had come from, whether north, south, east, or west, and the squire did not choose to allude to anything that might bring out what his son wished to conceal. Again, there was an unexpressed idea in both their minds that Mrs. Hamley’s present illness was much aggravated, if not entirely brought on, by the discovery of Osborne’s debts; so, many inquiries and answers on that head were tabooed. In fact, their attempts at easy conversation were limited to local subjects, and principally addressed to Molly or Roger. Such intercourse was not productive of pleasure, or even of friendly feeling, though there was a thin outward surface of politeness and peace. Long before the day was over, Molly wished that she had acceded to her father’s proposal, and gone home with him. No one seemed to want her. Mrs. Jones, the nurse, assured her time after time that Mrs. Hamley had never named her name; and her small services in the sick-room were not required since there was a regular nurse. Osborne and Roger seemed all in all to each other; and Molly now felt how much the short conversations she had had with Roger had served to give her something to think about, all during the remainder of her solitary days. Osborne was extremely polite, and even expressed his gratitude to her for her attentions to his mother in a very pleasant manner; but he appeared to be unwilling to show her any of the deeper feelings of his heart, and almost ashamed of his exhibition of emotion the night before. He spoke to her as any agreeable young man speaks to any pleasant young lady; but Molly almost resented this. It was only the squire who seemed to make her of any account. He gave her letters to write, small bills to reckon up; and she could have kissed his hands for thankfulness.