CHAPTER X.
A CRISIS.
[Illustration (untitled)]
Mrs. Kirkpatrick had been reading aloud till Lady Cumnor fell asleep,the book rested on her knee, just kept from falling by her hold. Shewas looking out of the window, not seeing the trees in the park, northe glimpses of the hills beyond, but thinking how pleasant it wouldbe to have a husband once more;--some one who would work while shesate at her elegant ease in a prettily-furnished drawing-room; andshe was rapidly investing this imaginary breadwinner with the formand features of the country surgeon, when there was a slight tapat the door, and almost before she could rise, the object of herthoughts came in. She felt herself blush, and she was not displeasedat the consciousness. She advanced to meet him, making a sign towardsher sleeping ladyship.
"Very good," said he, in a low voice, casting a professional eye onthe slumbering figure; "can I speak to you for a minute or two in thelibrary?"
"Is he going to offer?" thought she, with a sudden palpitation, anda conviction of her willingness to accept a man whom an hour beforeshe had simply looked upon as one of the category of unmarried men towhom matrimony was possible.
He was only going to make one or two medical inquiries; she foundthat out very speedily, and considered the conversation as ratherflat to her, though it might be instructive to him. She was not awarethat he finally made up his mind to propose, during the time thatshe was speaking--answering his questions in many words, but he wasaccustomed to winnow the chaff from the corn; and her voice was sosoft, her accent so pleasant, that it struck him as particularlyagreeable after the broad country accent he was perpetually hearing.Then the harmonious colours of her dress, and her slow and gracefulmovements, had something of the same soothing effect upon his nervesthat a cat's purring has upon some people's. He began to thinkthat he should be fortunate if he could win her, for his own sake.Yesterday he had looked upon her more as a possible stepmotherfor Molly; to-day he thought more of her as a wife for himself.The remembrance of Lord Cumnor's letter gave her a very becomingconsciousness; she wished to attract, and hoped that she wassucceeding. Still they only talked of the countess's state for sometime: then a lucky shower came on. Mr. Gibson did not care a jot forrain, but just now it gave him an excuse for lingering.
"It's very stormy weather," said he.
"Yes, very. My daughter writes me word, that for two days last weekthe packet could not sail from Boulogne."
"Miss Kirkpatrick is at Boulogne, is she?"
"Yes, poor girl; she is at school there, trying to perfect herselfin the French language. But, Mr. Gibson, you must not call her MissKirkpatrick. Cynthia remembers you with so much--affection, I maysay. She was your little patient when she had the measles here fouryears ago, you know. Pray call her Cynthia; she would be quite hurtat such a formal name as Miss Kirkpatrick from you."
"Cynthia seems to me such an out-of-the-way name, only fit forpoetry, not for daily use."
"It is mine," said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a plaintive tone of reproach."I was christened Hyacinth, and her poor father would have her calledafter me. I'm sorry you don't like it."
Mr. Gibson did not know what to say. He was not quite prepared toplunge into the directly personal style. While he was hesitating, shewent on--
"Hyacinth Clare! Once upon a time I was quite proud of my prettyname; and other people thought it pretty, too."
"I've no doubt--" Mr. Gibson began; and then stopped.
"Perhaps I did wrong in yielding to his wish, to have her called bysuch a romantic name. It may excite prejudice against her in somepeople; and, poor child! she will have enough to struggle with. Ayoung daughter is a great charge, Mr. Gibson, especially when thereis only one parent to look after her."
"You are quite right," said he, recalled to the remembrance of Molly;"though I should have thought that a girl who is so fortunate as tohave a mother could not feel the loss of her father so acutely as onewho is motherless must suffer from her deprivation."
"You are thinking of your own daughter. It was careless of me to saywhat I did. Dear child! how well I remember her sweet little face asshe lay sleeping on my bed. I suppose she is nearly grown-up now. Shemust be near my Cynthia's age. How I should like to see her!"
"I hope you will. I should like you to see her. I should like you tolove my poor little Molly,--to love her as your own--" He swalloweddown something that rose in his throat, and was nearly choking him.
"Is he going to offer? _Is_ he?" she wondered; and she began totremble in the suspense before he next spoke.
"Could you love her as your daughter? Will you try? Will you giveme the right of introducing you to her as her future mother; as mywife?"
There! he had done it--whether it was wise or foolish--he had doneit! but he was aware that the question as to its wisdom came into hismind the instant that the words were said past recall.
She hid her face in her hands.
"Oh! Mr. Gibson," she said; and then, a little to his surprise, and agreat deal to her own, she burst into hysterical tears: it was sucha wonderful relief to feel that she need not struggle any more for alivelihood.
"My dear--my dearest," said he, trying to soothe her with word andcaress; but, just at the moment, uncertain what name he ought touse. After her sobbing had abated a little, she said herself, as ifunderstanding his difficulty,--
"Call me Hyacinth--your own Hyacinth. I can't bear 'Clare,' it doesso remind me of being a governess, and those days are all past now."
"Yes; but surely no one can have been more valued, more beloved thanyou have been in this family at least."
"Oh, yes! they have been very good. But still one has always had toremember one's position."
"We ought to tell Lady Cumnor," said he, thinking, perhaps, more ofthe various duties which lay before him in consequence of the step hehad just taken, than of what his future bride was saying.
"You'll tell her, won't you?" said she, looking up in his face withbeseeching eyes. "I always like other people to tell her things, andthen I can see how she takes them."
"Certainly! I will do whatever you wish. Shall we go and see if sheis awake now?"
"No! I think not. I had better prepare her. You will come to-morrow,won't you? and you will tell her then."
"Yes; that will be best. I ought to tell Molly first. She has theright to know. I do hope you and she will love each other dearly."
"Oh, yes! I'm sure we shall. Then you'll come to-morrow and tell LadyCumnor? And I'll prepare her."
"I don't see what preparation is necessary; but you know best, mydear. When can we arrange for you and Molly to meet?"
Just then a servant came in, and the pair started apart.
"Her ladyship is awake, and wishes to see Mr. Gibson."
They both followed the man upstairs; Mrs. Kirkpatrick trying hardto look as if nothing had happened, for she particularly wished"to prepare" Lady Cumnor; that is to say, to give her version of Mr.Gibson's extreme urgency, and her own coy unwillingness.
But Lady Cumnor had observant eyes in sickness as well as in health.She had gone to sleep with the recollection of the passage in herhusband's letter full in her mind, and, perhaps, it gave a directionto her wakening ideas.
"I'm glad you're not gone, Mr. Gibson. I wanted to tell you-- What'sthe matter with you both? What have you been saying to Clare? I'msure something has happened."
There was nothing for it, in Mr. Gibson's opinion, but to make aclean breast of it, and tell her ladyship all. He turned round, andtook hold of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's hand, and said out straight, "I havebeen asking Mrs. Kirkpatrick to be my wife, and to be a mother to mychild; and she has consented. I hardly know how to thank her enoughin words."
"Umph! I don't see any objection. I daresay you'll be very happy.I'm very glad of it! Here! shake hands with me, both of you." Thenlaughing a little, she added, "It does not seem to me that anyexertion has been required on my part."
Mr. Gibson looked perplexed at these words. Mrs. Kirkpatrickreddened.
They were neither of them quite as desirous of further conversationtogether as they had been before the passage out of Lord Cumnor'sletter had been read aloud. Mr. Gibson tried not to think about it,for he was aware that if he dwelt upon it, he might get to fancy allsorts of things, as to the conversation which had ended in his offer.But Lady Cumnor was imperious now, as always.
"Come, no nonsense. I always made my girls go and have tete-a-teteswith the men who were to be their husbands, whether they would or no:there's a great deal to be talked over before every marriage, and youtwo are certainly old enough to be above affectation. Go away withyou."
So there was nothing for it but for them to return to the library;Mrs. Kirkpatrick pouting a little, and Mr. Gibson feeling more likehis own cool, sarcastic self, by many degrees, than he had done whenlast in that room.
She began, half crying,--
"I cannot tell what poor Kirkpatrick would say if he knew what I havedone. He did so dislike the notion of second marriages, poor fellow!"
"Let us hope that he doesn't know, then; or that, if he does, heis wiser--I mean, that he sees how second marriages may be mostdesirable and expedient in some cases."
Altogether, this second tete-a-tete, done to command, was not sosatisfactory as the first; and Mr. Gibson was quite alive to thenecessity of proceeding on his round to see his patients before verymuch time had elapsed.
"We shall shake down into uniformity before long, I've no doubt,"said he to himself, as he rode away. "It's hardly to be expected thatour thoughts should run in the same groove all at once. Nor should Ilike it," he added. "It would be very flat and stagnant to have onlyan echo of one's own opinions from one's wife. Heigho! I must tellMolly about it: dear little woman, I wonder how she'll take it? It'sdone, in a great measure, for her good." And then he lost himself inrecapitulating Mrs. Kirkpatrick's good qualities, and the advantagesto be gained to his daughter from the step he had just taken.
It was too late to go round by Hamley that afternoon. The Towers andthe Towers' round lay just in the opposite direction to Hamley. So itwas the next morning before Mr. Gibson arrived at the Hall, timinghis visit as well as he could so as to have half-an-hour's privatetalk with Molly before Mrs. Hamley came down into the drawing-room.He thought that his daughter would require sympathy after receivingthe intelligence he had to communicate; and he knew there was no onemore fit to give it than Mrs. Hamley.
It was a brilliantly hot summer's morning; men in their shirtsleeveswere in the fields getting in the early harvest of oats; as Mr.Gibson rode slowly along, he could see them over the tall hedge-rows,and even hear the soothing measured sound of the fall of the longswathes, as they were mown. The labourers seemed too hot to talk; thedog, guarding their coats and cans, lay panting loudly on the otherside of the elm, under which Mr. Gibson stopped for an instant tosurvey the scene, and gain a little delay before the interview thathe wished was well over. In another minute he had snapped at himselffor his weakness, and put spurs to his horse. He came up to the Hallat a good sharp trot; it was earlier than the usual time of hisvisits, and no one was expecting him; all the stable-men were inthe fields, but that signified little to Mr. Gibson he walked hishorse about for five minutes or so before taking him into the stable,and loosened his girths, examining him with perhaps unnecessaryexactitude. He went into the house by a private door, and made hisway into the drawing-room, half expecting, however, that Molly wouldbe in the garden. She had been there, but it was too hot and dazzlingnow for her to remain out of doors, and she had come in by the openwindow of the drawing-room. Oppressed with the heat, she had fallenasleep in an easy-chair, her bonnet and open book upon her knee, onearm hanging listlessly down. She looked very soft, and young, andchildlike; and a gush of love sprang into her father's heart as hegazed at her.
"Molly!" said he, gently, taking the little brown hand that washanging down, and holding it in his own. "Molly!"
She opened her eyes, that for one moment had no recognition in them.Then the light came brilliantly into them and she sprang up, andthrew her arms round his neck, exclaiming,--
"Oh, papa, my dear, dear papa! What made you come while I was asleep?I lose the pleasure of watching for you."
Mr. Gibson turned a little paler than he had been before. He stillheld her hand, and drew her to a seat by him on a sofa, withoutspeaking. There was no need; she was chattering away.
"I was up so early! It is so charming to be out here in the freshmorning air. I think that made me sleepy. But isn't it a gloriouslyhot day? I wonder if the Italian skies they talk about can be bluerthan that--that little bit you see just between the oaks--there!"
She pulled her hand away, and used both it and the other to turn herfather's head, so that he should exactly see the very bit she meant.She was rather struck by his unusual silence.
"Have you heard from Miss Eyre, papa? How are they all? And thisfever that is about? Do you know, papa, I don't think you are lookingwell? You want me at home to take care of you. How soon may I comehome?"
"Don't I look well? That must be all your fancy, goosey. I feeluncommonly well; and I ought to look well, for-- I have a piece ofnews for you, little woman." (He felt that he was doing his businessvery awkwardly, but he was determined to plunge on.) "Can you guessit?"
"How should I?" said she; but her tone was changed, and she wasevidently uneasy, as with the presage of an instinct.
"Why, you see, my love," said he, again taking her hand, "that youare in a very awkward position--a girl growing up in such a familyas mine--young men--which was a piece of confounded stupidity on mypart. And I am obliged to be away so much."
"But there is Miss Eyre," said she, sick with the strengtheningindefinite presage of what was to come. "Dear Miss Eyre, I wantnothing but her and you."
"Still there are times like the present when Miss Eyre cannot be withyou; her home is not with us; she has other duties. I've been ingreat perplexity for some time; but at last I've taken a step whichwill, I hope, make us both happier."
"You're going to be married again," said she, helping him out, with aquiet dry voice, and gently drawing her hand out of his.
"Yes. To Mrs. Kirkpatrick--you remember her? They call her Clare atthe Towers. You recollect how kind she was to you that day you wereleft there?"
She did not answer. She could not tell what words to use. Shewas afraid of saying anything, lest the passion of anger,dislike, indignation--whatever it was that was boiling up in herbreast--should find vent in cries and screams, or worse, in ragingwords that could never be forgotten. It was as if the piece of solidground on which she stood had broken from the shore, and she wasdrifting out to the infinite sea alone.
Mr. Gibson saw that her silence was unnatural, and half-guessed atthe cause of it. But he knew that she must have time to reconcileherself to the idea, and still believed that it would be for hereventual happiness. He had, besides, the relief of feeling that thesecret was told, the confidence made, which he had been dreadingfor the last twenty-four hours. He went on recapitulating all theadvantages of the marriage; he knew them off by heart now.
"She's a very suitable age
for me. I don't know how old she isexactly, but she must be nearly forty. I shouldn't have wished tomarry any one younger. She's highly respected by Lord and Lady Cumnorand their family, which is of itself a character. She has veryagreeable and polished manners--of course, from the circles she hasbeen thrown into--and you and I, goosey, are apt to be a littlebrusque, or so; we must brush up our manners now."
No remark from her on this little bit of playfulness. He went on,--
"She has been accustomed to housekeeping--economical housekeeping,too--for of late years she has had a school at Ashcombe, and has had,of course, to arrange all things for a large family. And last, butnot least, she has a daughter--about your age, Molly--who, of course,will come and live with us, and be a nice companion--a sister--foryou."
Still she was silent. At length she said,--
"So I was sent out of the house that all this might be quietlyarranged in my absence?"
Out of the bitterness of her heart she spoke, but she was rousedout of her assumed impassiveness by the effect produced. Herfather started up, and quickly left the room, saying something tohimself--what, she could not hear, though she ran after him, followedhim through dark stone passages, into the glare of the stable-yard,into the stables--
"Oh, papa, papa--I'm not myself--I don't know what to say about thishateful--detestable--"
He led his horse out. She did not know if he heard her words. Just ashe mounted, he turned round upon her with a grey grim face--
"I think it's better for both of us, for me to go away now. Wemay say things difficult to forget. We are both much agitated. Byto-morrow we shall be more composed; you will have thought it over,and have seen that the principal--one great motive, I mean--was yourgood. You may tell Mrs. Hamley--I meant to have told her myself. Iwill come again to-morrow. Good-by, Molly."
For many minutes after he had ridden away--long after the sound ofhis horse's hoofs on the round stones of the paved lane, beyond thehome-meadows, had died away--Molly stood there, shading her eyes,and looking at the empty space of air in which his form had lastappeared. Her very breath seemed suspended; only, two or three times,after long intervals, she drew a miserable sigh, which was caught upinto a sob. She turned away at last, but could not go into the house,could not tell Mrs. Hamley, could not forget how her father hadlooked and spoken--and left her.
She went out through a side-door--it was the way by which thegardeners passed when they took the manure into the garden--and thewalk to which it led was concealed from sight as much as possible byshrubs and evergreens and over-arching trees. No one would know whatbecame of her--and, with the ingratitude of misery, she added toherself, no one would care. Mrs. Hamley had her own husband, her ownchildren, her close home interests--she was very good and kind, butthere was a bitter grief in Molly's heart, with which the strangercould not intermeddle. She went quickly on to the bourne which shehad fixed for herself--a seat almost surrounded by the droopingleaves of a weeping-ash--a seat on the long broad terrace walk onthe other side of the wood, that overlooked the pleasant slope ofthe meadows beyond. The walk had probably been made to command thissunny, peaceful landscape, with trees, and a church spire, two orthree red-tiled roofs of old cottages, and a purple bit of risingground in the distance; and at some previous date, when there mighthave been a large family of Hamleys residing at the Hall, ladiesin hoops, and gentlemen in bag-wigs with swords by their sides,might have filled up the breadth of the terrace, as they sauntered,smiling, along. But no one ever cared to saunter there now. It was adeserted walk. The squire or his sons might cross it in passing to alittle gate that led to the meadow beyond; but no one loitered there.Molly almost thought that no one knew of the hidden seat under theash-tree but herself; for there were not more gardeners employed uponthe grounds than were necessary to keep the kitchen-gardens and suchof the ornamental part as was frequented by the family, or in sightof the house, in good order.
When she had once got to the seat she broke out with suppressedpassion of grief. She did not care to analyze the sources of hertears and sobs--her father was going to be married again--her fatherwas angry with her; she had done very wrong--he had gone awaydispleased; she had lost his love; he was going to be married--awayfrom her--away from his child--his little daughter--forgetting herown dear, dear mother. So she thought in a tumultuous kind of way,sobbing till she was wearied out, and had to gain strength by beingquiet for a time, to break forth into her passion of tears afresh.She had cast herself on the ground--that natural throne for violentsorrow--and leant up against the old moss-grown seat; sometimesburying her face in her hands; sometimes clasping them together, asif by the tight painful grasp of her fingers she could deaden mentalsuffering.
She did not see Roger Hamley returning from the meadows, nor hear theclick of the little white gate. He had been out dredging in ponds andditches, and had his wet sling-net, with its imprisoned treasures ofnastiness, over his shoulder. He was coming home to lunch, havingalways a fine midday appetite, though he pretended to despise themeal in theory. But he knew that his mother liked his companionshipthen; she depended much upon her luncheon, and was seldom downstairsand visible to her family much before the time. So he overcame histheory, for the sake of his mother, and had his reward in the heartyrelish with which he kept her company in eating.
He did not see Molly as he crossed the terrace-walk on his wayhomewards. He had gone about twenty yards along the small wood-pathat right angles to the terrace, when, looking among the grass andwild plants under the trees, he spied out one which was rare, onewhich he had been long wishing to find in flower, and saw it at last,with those bright keen eyes of his. Down went his net, skilfullytwisted so as to retain its contents, while it lay amid the herbage,and he himself went with light and well-planted footsteps in searchof the treasure. He was so great a lover of nature that, without anythought, but habitually, he always avoided treading unnecessarily onany plant; who knew what long-sought growth or insect might developitself in that which now appeared but insignificant?
His steps led him in the direction of the ash-tree seat, much lessscreened from observation on this side than on the terrace. Hestopped; he saw a light-coloured dress on the ground--somebodyhalf-lying on the seat, so still just then, he wondered if theperson, whoever it was, had fallen ill or fainted. He paused towatch. In a minute or two the sobs broke out again--the words. It wasMiss Gibson crying out in a broken voice,--
"Oh, papa, papa! if you would but come back!"
For a minute or two he thought it would be kinder to leave herfancying herself unobserved; he had even made a retrograde step ortwo, on tip-toe; but then he heard the miserable sobbing again. Itwas farther than his mother could walk, or else, be the sorrow whatit would, she was the natural comforter of this girl, her visitor.However, whether it was right or wrong, delicate or obtrusive, whenhe heard the sad voice talking again, in such tones of uncomforted,lonely misery, he turned back, and went to the green tent under theash-tree. She started up when he came thus close to her; she tried tocheck her sobs, and instinctively smoothed her wet tangled hair backwith her hands.
He looked down upon her with grave, kind sympathy, but he did notknow exactly what to say.
"Is it lunch-time?" said she, trying to believe that he did not seethe traces of her tears and the disturbance of her features--that hehad not seen her lying, sobbing her heart out there.
"I don't know. I was going home to lunch. But--you must let mesay it--I couldn't go on when I saw your distress. Has anythinghappened?--anything in which I can help you, I mean; for, of course,I've no right to make the inquiry, if it is any private sorrow, inwhich I can be of no use."
She had exhausted herself so much with crying, that she felt as ifshe could neither stand nor walk just yet. She sate down on the seat,and sighed, and turned so pale, he thought she was going to faint.
"Wait a moment," said he,--quite unnecessarily, for she could nothave stirred,--and he was off like a shot to some spring of waterthat he knew of in the wood, and in a minute
or two he returned withcareful steps, bringing a little in a broad green leaf, turned intoan impromptu cup. Little as it was, it did her good.
"Thank you!" she said: "I can walk back now, in a short time. Don'tstop."
"You must let me," said he: "my mother wouldn't like me to leave youto come home alone, while you are so faint."
So they remained in silence for a little while; he, breaking off andexamining one or two abnormal leaves of the ash-tree, partly from thecustom of his nature, partly to give her time to recover.
"Papa is going to be married again," said she, at length.
She could not have said why she told him this; an instant before shespoke, she had no intention of doing so. He dropped the leaf he heldin his hand, turned round, and looked at her. Her poor wistful eyeswere filling with tears as they met his, with a dumb appeal forsympathy. Her look was much more eloquent than her words. There wasa momentary pause before he replied, and then it was more because hefelt that he must say something than that he was in any doubt as tothe answer to the question he asked.
"You are sorry for it?"
She did not take her eyes away from his, as her quivering lips formedthe word "Yes," though her voice made no sound. He was silent againnow; looking on the ground, kicking softly at a loose pebble with hisfoot. His thoughts did not come readily to the surface in the shapeof words; nor was he apt at giving comfort till he saw his way clearto the real source from which consolation must come. At last hespoke,--almost as if he was reasoning out the matter with himself.
"It seems as if there might be cases where--setting the question oflove entirely on one side--it must be almost a duty to find some oneto be a substitute for the mother. . . I can believe," said he, ina different tone of voice, and looking at Molly afresh, "that thisstep may be greatly for your father's happiness--it may relieve himfrom many cares, and may give him a pleasant companion."
"He had me. You don't know what we were to each other--at least, whathe was to me," she added, humbly.
"Still he must have thought it for the best, or he wouldn't have doneit. He may have thought it the best for your sake even more than forhis own."
"That is what he tried to convince me of."
Roger began kicking the pebble again. He had not got hold of theright end of the clue. Suddenly he looked up.
"I want to tell you of a girl I know. Her mother died when she wasabout sixteen--the eldest of a large family. From that time--allthrough the bloom of her youth--she gave herself up to her father,first as his comforter, afterwards as his companion, friend,secretary--anything you like. He was a man with a great deal ofbusiness on hand, and often came home only to set to afresh topreparations for the next day's work. Harriet was always there, readyto help, to talk, or to be silent. It went on for eight or ten yearsin this way; and then her father married again,--a woman not manyyears older than Harriet herself. Well--they are just the happiestset of people I know--you wouldn't have thought it likely, wouldyou?"
She was listening, but she had no heart to say anything. Yet she wasinterested in this little story of Harriet--a girl who had been somuch to her father, more than Molly in this early youth of hers couldhave been to Mr. Gibson. "How was it?" she sighed out at last.
"Harriet thought of her father's happiness before she thought of herown," Roger answered, with something of severe brevity. Molly neededthe bracing. She began to cry again a little.
"If it were for papa's happiness--"
"He must believe that it is. Whatever you fancy, give him a chance.He cannot have much comfort, I should think, if he sees you frettingor pining,--you who have been so much to him, as you say. The ladyherself, too--if Harriet's stepmother had been a selfish woman, andbeen always clutching after the gratification of her own wishes; butshe was not: she was as anxious for Harriet to be happy as Harrietwas for her father--and your father's future wife may be another ofthe same kind, though such people are rare."
"I don't think she is, though," murmured Molly, a waft ofrecollection bringing to her mind the details of her day at theTowers long ago.
Roger did not want to hear Molly's reasons for this doubting speech.He felt as if he had no right to hear more of Mr. Gibson's familylife, past, present, or to come, than was absolutely necessary forhim, in order that he might comfort and help the crying girl, whom hehad come upon so unexpectedly. And besides, he wanted to go home, andbe with his mother at lunch-time. Yet he could not leave her alone.
"It is right to hope for the best about everybody, and not to expectthe worst. This sounds like a truism, but it has comforted me beforenow, and some day you'll find it useful. One has always to try tothink more of others than of oneself, and it is best not to prejudgepeople on the bad side. My sermons aren't long, are they? Have theygiven you an appetite for lunch? Sermons always make me hungry, Iknow."
He appeared to be waiting for her to get up and come along with him,as indeed he was. But he meant her to perceive that he should notleave her; so she rose up languidly, too languid to say how much sheshould prefer being left alone, if he would only go away without her.She was very weak, and stumbled over the straggling root of a treethat projected across the path. He, watchful though silent, sawthis stumble, and putting out his hand held her up from falling. Hestill held her hand when the occasion was past; this little physicalfailure impressed on his heart how young and helpless she was, andhe yearned to her, remembering the passion of sorrow in which he hadfound her, and longing to be of some little tender bit of comfort toher, before they parted--before their tete-a-tete walk was merged inthe general familiarity of the household life. Yet he did not knowwhat to say.
"You will have thought me hard," he burst out at length, as theywere nearing the drawing-room windows and the garden-door. "Inever can manage to express what I feel--somehow I always fall tophilosophizing--but I am sorry for you. Yes, I am; it's beyond mypower to help you, as far as altering facts goes, but I can feel foryou, in a way which it's best not to talk about, for it can do nogood. Remember how sorry I am for you! I shall often be thinking ofyou, though I daresay it's best not to talk about it again."
She said, "I know you are sorry," under her breath, and then shebroke away, and ran indoors, and upstairs to the solitude of her ownroom. He went straight to his mother, who was sitting before theuntasted luncheon, as much annoyed by the mysterious unpunctualityof her visitor as she was capable of being with anything; for shehad heard that Mr. Gibson had been, and was gone, and she could notdiscover if he had left any message for her; and her anxiety abouther own health, which some people esteemed hypochondriacal, alwaysmade her particularly craving for the wisdom which might fall fromher doctor's lips.
"Where have you been, Roger? Where is Molly?--Miss Gibson, I mean,"for she was careful to keep up a barrier of forms between the youngman and young woman who were thrown together in the same household.
"I've been out dredging. (By the way, I left my net on the terracewalk.) I found Miss Gibson sitting there, crying as if her heartwould break. Her father is going to be married again."
"Married again! You don't say so."
"Yes, he is; and she takes it very hardly, poor girl. Mother, I thinkif you could send some one to her with a glass of wine, a cup of tea,or something of that sort--she was very nearly fainting--"
"I'll go to her myself, poor child," said Mrs. Hamley, rising.
"Indeed you must not," said he, laying his hand upon her arm. "Wehave kept you waiting already too long; you are looking quite pale.Hammond can take it," he continued, ringing the bell. She sate downagain, almost stunned with surprise.
"Whom is he going to marry?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask, and she didn't tell me."
"That's so like a man. Why, half the character of the affair lies inthe question of who it is that he is going to marry."
"I daresay I ought to have asked. But somehow I'm not a good oneon such occasions. I was as sorry as could be for her, and yet Icouldn't tell what to say."
"What did you say?"
"I gave her the best advice in my power."
"Advice! you ought to have comforted her. Poor little Molly!"
"I think that if advice is good it's the best comfort."
"That depends on what you mean by advice. Hush! here she is."
To their surprise, Molly came in, trying hard to look as usual. Shehad bathed her eyes, and arranged her hair; and was making a greatstruggle to keep from crying, and to bring her voice into order.She was unwilling to distress Mrs. Hamley by the sight of pain andsuffering. She did not know that she was following Roger's injunctionto think more of others than of herself--but so she was. Mrs. Hamleywas not sure if it was wise in her to begin on the piece of news shehad just heard from her son but she was too full of it herself totalk of anything else. "So I hear your father is going to be married,my dear? May I ask whom it is to?"
"Mrs. Kirkpatrick. I think she was governess a long time ago at theCountess of Cumnor's. She stays with them a great deal, and they callher Clare, and I believe they are very fond of her." Molly tried tospeak of her future stepmother in the most favourable manner she knewhow.
"I think I've heard of her. Then she's not very young? That's as itshould be. A widow too. Has she any family?"
"One girl, I believe. But I know so little about her!"
Molly was very near crying again.
"Never mind, my dear. That will all come in good time. Roger, you'vehardly eaten anything; where are you going?"
"To fetch my dredging-net. It's full of things I don't want to lose.Besides, I never eat much, as a general thing." The truth was partlytold, not all. He thought he had better leave the other two alone.His mother had such sweet power of sympathy, that she would draw thesting out of the girl's heart when she had her alone. As soon as hewas gone, Molly lifted up her poor swelled eyes, and, looking at Mrs.Hamley, she said,--"He was so good to me. I mean to try and rememberall he said."
"I'm glad to hear it, love; very glad. From what he told me, I wasafraid he had been giving you a little lecture. He has a good heart,but he isn't so tender in his manner as Osborne. Roger is a littlerough sometimes."
"Then I like roughness. It did me good. It made me feel howbadly--oh, Mrs. Hamley, I did behave so badly to papa this morning!"
She rose up and threw herself into Mrs. Hamley's arms, and sobbedupon her breast. Her sorrow was not now for the fact that her fatherwas going to be married again, but for her own ill-behaviour.
If Roger was not tender in words, he was in deeds. Unreasonable andpossibly exaggerated as Molly's grief had appeared to him, it wasreal suffering to her; and he took some pains to lighten it, in hisown way, which was characteristic enough. That evening he adjustedhis microscope, and put the treasures he had collected in hismorning's ramble on a little table; and then he asked his mother tocome and admire. Of course Molly came too, and this was what he hadintended. He tried to interest her in his pursuit, cherished herfirst little morsel of curiosity, and nursed it into a very properdesire for further information. Then he brought out books on thesubject, and translated the slightly pompous and technical languageinto homely every-day speech. Molly had come down to dinner,wondering how the long hours till bedtime would ever pass away:hours during which she must not speak on the one thing that wouldbe occupying her mind to the exclusion of all others; for she wasafraid that already she had wearied Mrs. Hamley with it during theirafternoon tete-a-tete. But prayers and bedtime came long before sheexpected; she had been refreshed by a new current of thought, and shewas very thankful to Roger. And now there was to-morrow to come, anda confession of penitence to be made to her father.
But Mr. Gibson did not want speech or words. He was not fond ofexpressions of feeling at any time, and perhaps, too, he felt thatthe less said the better on a subject about which it was evident thathis daughter and he were not thoroughly and impulsively in harmony.He read her repentance in her eyes; he saw how much she had suffered;and he had a sharp pang at his heart in consequence. And he stoppedher from speaking out her regret at her behaviour the day before, bya "There, there, that will do. I know all you want to say. I know mylittle Molly--my silly little goosey--better than she knows herself.I've brought you an invitation. Lady Cumnor wants you to go and spendnext Thursday at the Towers!"
"Do you wish me to go?" said she, her heart sinking.
"I wish you and Hyacinth to become better acquainted--to learn tolove each other."
"Hyacinth!" said Molly, entirely bewildered.
"Yes; Hyacinth! It's the silliest name I ever heard of; but it'shers, and I must call her by it. I can't bear Clare, which iswhat my lady and all the family at the Towers call her; and 'Mrs.Kirkpatrick' is formal and nonsensical too, as she'll change her nameso soon."
"When, papa?" asked Molly, feeling as if she were living in astrange, unknown world.
"Not till after Michaelmas." And then, continuing on his ownthoughts, he added, "And the worst is, she's gone and perpetuated herown affected name by having her daughter called after her. Cynthia!One thinks of the moon, and the man in the moon with his bundle offaggots. I'm thankful you're plain Molly, child."
"How old is she--Cynthia, I mean?"
"Ay, get accustomed to the name. I should think Cynthia Kirkpatrickwas about as old as you are. She's at school in France, picking upairs and graces. She's to come home for the wedding, so you'll beable to get acquainted with her then; though, I think, she's to goback again for another half-year or so."
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