CHAPTER XXXVII.
A FLUKE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
[Illustration (untitled)]
The honour and glory of having a lover of her own was soon to fallto Molly's share; though, to be sure, it was a little deduction fromthe honour that the man who came with the full intention of proposingto her, ended by making Cynthia an offer. It was Mr. Coxe, who cameback to Hollingford to follow out the purpose he had announced to Mr.Gibson nearly two years before, of inducing Molly to become his wifeas soon as he should have succeeded to his uncle's estate. He was nowa rich, though still a red-haired, young man. He came to the GeorgeInn, bringing his horses and his groom; not that he was going to ridemuch, but that he thought such outward signs of his riches might helpon his suit; and he was so justly modest in his estimation of himselfthat he believed that he needed all extraneous aid. He piqued himselfon his constancy; and indeed, considering that he had been so muchrestrained by his duty, his affection, and his expectations to hiscrabbed old uncle, that he had not been able to go much into society,and very rarely indeed into the company of young ladies, suchfidelity to Molly was very meritorious, at least in his own eyes. Mr.Gibson too was touched by it, and made it a point of honour to givehim a fair field, all the time sincerely hoping that Molly would notbe such a goose as to lend a willing ear to a youth who could neverremember the difference between apophysis and epiphysis. He thoughtit as well not to tell his wife more of Mr. Coxe's antecedents thanthat he had been a former pupil; who had relinquished ("all that heknew of," understood) the medical profession because an old unclehad left him enough of money to be idle. Mrs. Gibson, who felt thatshe had somehow lost her place in her husband's favour, took it intoher head that she could reinstate herself if she was successfulin finding a good match for his daughter Molly. She knew that herhusband had forbidden her to try for this end, as distinctly aswords could express a meaning; but her own words so seldom expressedher meaning, or if they did, she held to her opinions so loosely,that she had no idea but that it was the same with other people.Accordingly she gave Mr. Coxe a very sweet and gracious welcome.
"It is such a pleasure to me to make acquaintance with the formerpupils of my husband. He has spoken to me so often of you that Iquite feel as if you were one of the family, as indeed I am sure thatMr. Gibson considers you."
Mr. Coxe felt much flattered, and took the words as a happy omen forhis love-affair. "Is Miss Gibson in?" asked he, blushing violently."I knew her formerly--that is to say, I lived in the same housewith her, for more than two years, and it would be a great pleasureto--to--"
"Certainly, I am sure she will be so glad to see you. I sent herand Cynthia--you don't know my daughter Cynthia, I think, Mr. Coxe?she and Molly are such great friends--out for a brisk walk thisfrosty day, but I think they will soon come back." She went on sayingagreeable nothings to the young man, who received her attentionswith a certain complacency, but was all the time much more engagedin listening to the well-remembered click at the front door,--theshutting it to again with household care, and the sound of thefamiliar bounding footstep on the stair. At last they came. Cynthiaentered first, bright and blooming, fresh colour in her cheeks andlips, fresh brilliance in her eyes. She looked startled at the sightof a stranger, and for an instant she stopped short at the door, asif taken by surprise. Then in came Molly softly behind her, smiling,happy, dimpled; but not such a glowing beauty as Cynthia.
"Oh, Mr. Coxe, is it you?" said she, going up to him with anoutstretched hand, and greeting him with simple friendliness.
"Yes; it seems such a long time since I saw you. You are so muchgrown--so much--well, I suppose I mustn't say what," he replied,speaking hurriedly, and holding her hand all the time, rather toher discomfiture. Then Mrs. Gibson introduced her daughter, and thetwo girls spoke of the enjoyment of their walk. Mr. Coxe marred hiscause in that very first interview, if indeed he ever could havehad any chance, by his precipitancy in showing his feelings, andMrs. Gibson helped him to mar it by trying to assist him. Molly losther open friendliness of manner, and began to shrink away from himin a way which he thought was a very ungrateful return for all hisfaithfulness to her these two years past; and after all she was notthe wonderful beauty his fancy or his love had painted her. That MissKirkpatrick was far more beautiful and much easier of access. ForCynthia put on all her pretty airs--her look of intent interest inwhat any one was saying to her, let the subject be what it would,as if it was the thing she cared most about in the whole world; herunspoken deference; in short, all the unconscious ways she possessedby instinct of tickling the vanity of men. So while Molly quietlyrepelled him, Cynthia drew him to her by her soft attractive ways;and his constancy fell before her charms. He was thankful that he hadnot gone too far with Molly, and grateful to Mr. Gibson for havingprohibited all declarations two years ago; for Cynthia, and Cynthiaalone, could make him happy. After a fortnight's time, during whichhe had entirely veered round in his allegiance, he thought itdesirable to speak to Mr. Gibson. He did so with a certain senseof exultation in his own correct behaviour in the affair, but atthe same time feeling rather ashamed of the confession of his ownchangeableness which was naturally involved. Now it had so happenedthat Mr. Gibson had been unusually little at home during thefortnight that Mr. Coxe had ostensibly lodged at the "George," butin reality had spent the greater part of his time at Mr. Gibson'shouse--so that he had seen very little of his former pupil, and onthe whole he had thought him improved, especially after Molly'smanner had made her father pretty sure that Mr. Coxe stood no chancein that quarter. But Mr. Gibson was quite ignorant of the attractionwhich Cynthia had had for the young man. If he had perceived it, hewould have nipped it in the bud pretty quickly, for he had no notionof any girl, even though only partially engaged to one man, receivingoffers from others, if a little plain speaking could prevent it. Mr.Coxe had asked for a private interview; they were sitting in the oldsurgery, now called the consulting-room, but still retaining so muchof its former self as to be the last place in which Mr. Coxe couldfeel himself at ease. He was red up to the very roots of his redhair, and kept turning his glossy new hat round and round in hisfingers, unable to find out the proper way of beginning his sentence,so at length he plunged in, grammar or no grammar.
"Mr. Gibson, I daresay you'll be surprised, I'm sure I am at--at whatI want to say; but I think it's the part of an honourable man, as yousaid yourself, sir, a year or two ago, to--to speak to the fatherfirst, and as you, sir, stand in the place of a father to MissKirkpatrick, I should like to express my feelings, my hopes, orperhaps I should say wishes, in short--"
"Miss Kirkpatrick?" said Mr. Gibson, a good deal surprised.
"Yes, sir!" continued Mr. Coxe, rushing on now he had got so far. "Iknow it may appear inconstant and changeable, but I do assure you, Icame here with a heart as faithful to your daughter as ever beat in aman's bosom. I most fully intended to offer myself and all that I hadto her acceptance before I left; but really, sir, if you had seen hermanner to me every time I endeavoured to press my suit a little--itwas more than coy, it was absolutely repellent, there could be nomistaking it,--while Miss Kirkpatrick--" he looked modestly down, andsmoothed the nap of his hat, smiling a little while he did so.
"While Miss Kirkpatrick--?" repeated Mr. Gibson, in such a sternvoice, that Mr. Coxe, landed esquire as he was now, felt as muchdiscomfited as he used to do when he was an apprentice, and Mr.Gibson had spoken to him in a similar manner.
"I was only going to say, sir, that so far as one can judge frommanner, and willingness to listen, and apparent pleasure in myvisits--altogether, I think I may venture to hope that MissKirkpatrick is not quite indifferent to me,--and I would wait,--youhave no objection, have you, sir, to my speaking to her, I mean?"said Mr. Coxe, a little anxious at the expression on Mr. Gibson'sface. "I do assure you I haven't a chance with Miss Gibson," hecontinued, not knowing what to say, and fancying that his inconstancywas rankling in Mr. Gibson's mind.
"No! I don't suppose you have. Don't go and fancy it is th
at which isannoying me. You're mistaken about Miss Kirkpatrick, however. I don'tbelieve she could ever have meant to give you encouragement!"
Mr. Coxe's face grew perceptibly paler. His feelings, if evanescent,were evidently strong.
"I think, sir, if you could have seen her--I don't consider myselfvain, and manner is so difficult to describe. At any rate, you canhave no objection to my taking my chance, and speaking to her."
"Of course, if you won't be convinced otherwise, I can have noobjection. But if you'll take my advice, you will spare yourself thepain of a refusal. I may, perhaps, be trenching on confidence, but Ithink I ought to tell you that her affections are otherwise engaged."
"It cannot be!" said Mr. Coxe. "Mr. Gibson, there must be somemistake. I have gone as far as I dared in expressing my feelings,and her manner has been most gracious. I don't think she could havemisunderstood my meaning. Perhaps she has changed her mind? It ispossible that, after consideration, she has learnt to prefer another,is it not?"
"By 'another,' you mean yourself, I suppose. I can believe in suchinconstancy" (he could not help, in his own mind, giving a slightsneer at the instance before him), "but I should be very sorry tothink that Miss Kirkpatrick could be guilty of it."
"But she may--it is a chance. Will you allow me to see her?"
"Certainly, my poor fellow"--for, intermingled with a littlecontempt, was a good deal of respect for the simplicity, theunworldliness, the strength of feeling, even though the feeling wasevanescent--"I will send her to you directly."
"Thank you, sir. God bless you for a kind friend!"
Mr. Gibson went upstairs to the drawing-room, where he was prettysure he should find Cynthia. There she was, as bright and careless asusual, making up a bonnet for her mother, and chattering to Molly asshe worked.
"Cynthia, you will oblige me by going down into my consulting-room atonce. Mr. Coxe wants to speak to you!"
"Mr. Coxe?" said Cynthia. "What can he want with me?"
Evidently, she answered her own question as soon as it was asked, forshe coloured, and avoided meeting Mr. Gibson's severe, uncompromisinglook. As soon as she had left the room, Mr. Gibson sat down,and took up a new _Edinburgh_ lying on the table, as an excusefor conversation. Was there anything in the article that madehim say, after a minute or two, to Molly, who sat silent andwondering--"Molly, you must never trifle with the love of an honestman. You don't know what pain you may give."
Presently Cynthia came back into the drawing-room, looking verymuch confused. Most likely she would not have returned if she hadknown that Mr. Gibson was still there; but it was such an unheard-ofthing for him to be sitting in that room in the middle of the day,reading or making pretence to read, that she had never thought of hisremaining. He looked up at her the moment she came in, so there wasnothing for it but putting a bold face on it, and going back to herwork.
"Is Mr. Coxe still downstairs?" asked Mr. Gibson.
"No. He is gone. He asked me to give you both his kind regards. Ibelieve he is leaving this afternoon." Cynthia tried to make hermanner as commonplace as possible; but she did not look up, and hervoice trembled a little.
Mr. Gibson went on looking at his book for a few minutes; but Cynthiafelt that more was coming, and only wished it would come quickly, forthe severe silence was very hard to bear. It came at last.
"I trust this will never occur again, Cynthia!" said he, in gravedispleasure. "I should not feel satisfied with the conduct of anygirl, however free, who could receive marked attentions from a youngman with complacency, and so lead him on to make an offer which shenever meant to accept. But what must I think of a young woman inyour position, engaged--yet 'accepting most graciously,' for thatwas the way Coxe expressed it--the overtures of another man? Do youconsider what unnecessary pain you have given him by your thoughtlessbehaviour? I call it thoughtless, but it's the mildest epithet I canapply to it. I beg that such a thing may not occur again, or I shallbe obliged to characterize it more severely."
"I TRUST THIS WILL NEVER OCCUR AGAIN, CYNTHIA!"]
Molly could not imagine what "more severely" could be, for herfather's manner appeared to her almost cruel in its sternness.Cynthia coloured up extremely, then went pale, and at length raisedher beautiful appealing eyes full of tears to Mr. Gibson. He wastouched by that look, but he resolved immediately not to be mollifiedby any of her physical charms of expression, but to keep to his soberjudgment of her conduct.
"Please, Mr. Gibson, hear my side of the story before you speak sohardly to me. I did not mean to--to flirt. I merely meant to makemyself agreeable,--I can't help doing that,--and that goose of a Mr.Coxe seems to have fancied I meant to give him encouragement."
"Do you mean that you were not aware that he was falling in love withyou?" Mr. Gibson was melting into a readiness to be convinced by thatsweet voice and pleading face.
"Well, I suppose I must speak truly." Cynthia blushed andsmiled--ever so little--but it was a smile, and it hardened Mr.Gibson's heart again. "I did think once or twice that he was becominga little more complimentary than the occasion required; but I hatethrowing cold water on people, and I never thought he could take itinto his silly head to fancy himself seriously in love, and to makesuch a fuss at the last, after only a fortnight's acquaintance."
"You seem to have been pretty well aware of his silliness (Ishould rather call it simplicity). Don't you think you should haveremembered that it might lead him to exaggerate what you were doingand saying into encouragement?"
"Perhaps. I daresay I'm all wrong, and that he is all right," saidCynthia, piqued and pouting. "We used to say in France, that '_lesabsens ont toujours tort_,' but really it seems as if here--" shestopped. She was unwilling to be impertinent to a man whom sherespected and liked. She took up another point of her defence, andrather made matters worse. "Besides, Roger would not allow me toconsider myself as finally engaged to him; I would willingly havedone it, but he would not let me."
"Nonsense. Don't let us go on talking about it, Cynthia! I've saidall that I mean to say. I believe that you were only thoughtless, asI told you before. But don't let it happen again." He left the roomat once, to put a stop to the conversation, the continuance of whichwould serve no useful purpose, and perhaps end by irritating him.
"Not guilty, but we recommend the prisoner not to do it again. It'spretty much that, isn't it, Molly?" said Cynthia, letting her tearsdownfall, even while she smiled. "I do believe your father might makea good woman of me yet, if he would only take the pains, and wasn'tquite so severe. And to think of that stupid little fellow making allthis mischief! He pretended to take it to heart, as if he had lovedme for years instead of only for days. I daresay only for hours ifthe truth were told."
"I was afraid he was becoming very fond of you," said Molly; "atleast it struck me once or twice; but I knew he could not stay long,and I thought it would only make you uncomfortable if I said anythingabout it. But now I wish I had!"
"It wouldn't have made a bit of difference," replied Cynthia. "I knewhe liked me, and I like to be liked; it's born in me to try to makeevery one I come near fond of me; but then they shouldn't carry ittoo far, for it becomes very troublesome if they do. I shall hatered-haired people for the rest of my life. To think of such a man asthat being the cause of your father's displeasure with me!"
Molly had a question at her tongue's end that she longed to put; sheknew it was indiscreet, but at last out it came almost against herwill:
"Shall you tell Roger about it?"
Cynthia replied, "I've not thought about it--no! I don't think Ishall--there's no need. Perhaps, if we are ever married--"
"Ever married!" said Molly, under her breath. But Cynthia took nonotice of the exclamation until she had finished the sentence whichit interrupted.
"--and I can see his face and know his mood, I may tell it him then;but not in writing, and when he is absent; it might annoy him."
"I am afraid it would make him uncomfortable," said Molly,simply. "And yet it must be so pleasant to b
e able to tell himeverything--all your difficulties and troubles."
"Yes; only I don't worry him with these things; it's better towrite him merry letters, and cheer him up among the black folk. Yourepeated 'Ever married,' a little while ago; do you know, Molly, Idon't think I ever shall be married to him? I don't know why, but Ihave a strong presentiment, so it's just as well not to tell him allmy secrets, for it would be awkward for him to know them if it nevercame off!"
Molly dropped her work, and sat silent, looking into the future; atlength she said, "I think it would break his heart, Cynthia!"
"Nonsense. Why, I'm sure that Mr. Coxe came here with the intentionof falling in love with you--you needn't blush so violently. I'm sureyou saw it as plainly as I did, only you made yourself disagreeable,and I took pity on him, and consoled his wounded vanity."
"Can you--do you dare to compare Roger Hamley to Mr. Coxe?" askedMolly, indignantly.
"No, no, I don't!" said Cynthia in a moment. "They are as differentas men can be. Don't be so dreadfully serious over everything, Molly.You look as oppressed with sad reproach, as if I had been passing onto you the scolding your father gave me."
"Because I don't think you value Roger as you ought, Cynthia!" saidMolly stoutly, for it required a good deal of courage to forceherself to say this, although she could not tell why she shrank sofrom speaking.
"Yes, I do! It's not in my nature to go into ecstasies, and I don'tsuppose I shall ever be what people call 'in love.' But I am glad heloves me, and I like to make him happy, and I think him the best andmost agreeable man I know, always excepting your father when he isn'tangry with me. What can I say more, Molly? would you like me to say Ithink him handsome?"
"I know most people think him plain, but--"
"Well, I'm of the opinion of most people then, and small blame tothem. But I like his face--oh, ten thousand times better than Mr.Preston's handsomeness!" For the first time during the conversationCynthia seemed thoroughly in earnest. Why Mr. Preston was introducedneither she nor Molly knew; it came up and out by a sudden impulse;but a fierce look came into the eyes, and the soft lips contractedthemselves as Cynthia named his name. Molly had noticed this lookbefore, always at the mention of this one person.
"Cynthia, what makes you dislike Mr. Preston so much?"
"Don't you? Why do you ask me? and yet, Molly," said she, suddenlyrelaxing into depression, not merely in tone and look, but in thedroop of her limbs--"Molly, what should you think of me if I marriedhim after all?"
"Married him! Has he ever asked you?"
But Cynthia, instead of replying to this question, went on, utteringher own thoughts,--"More unlikely things have happened. Have younever heard of strong wills mesmerizing weaker ones into submission?One of the girls at Madame Lefevre's went out as a governess to aRussian family, who lived near Moscow. I sometimes think I'll writeto her to find me a situation in Russia, just to get out of the dailychance of seeing that man!"
"But sometimes you seem quite intimate with him, and talk to him--"
"How can I help it?" said Cynthia impatiently. Then recoveringherself she added: "We knew him so well at Ashcombe, and he's not aman to be easily thrown off, I can tell you. I must be civil to him;it's not from liking, and he knows it's not, for I've told him so.However, we won't talk about him. I don't know how we came to do it,I'm sure: the mere fact of his existence, and of his being withinhalf a mile of us, is bad enough. Oh! I wish Roger was at home,and rich, and could marry me at once, and carry me away from thatman! If I'd thought of it, I really believe I would have taken poorred-haired Mr. Coxe."
"I don't understand it at all," said Molly. "I dislike Mr. Preston,but I should never think of taking such violent steps as you speakof, to get away from the neighbourhood in which he lives."
"No, because you are a reasonable little darling," said Cynthia,resuming her usual manner, and coming up to Molly, and kissing her."At least you'll acknowledge I'm a good hater!"
"Yes. But still I don't understand it."
"Oh, never mind! There are old complications with our affairs atAshcombe. Money matters are at the root of it all. Horrid poverty--dolet us talk of something else! Or, better still, let me go and finishmy letter to Roger, or I shall be too late for the African mail!"
"Isn't it gone? Oh, I ought to have reminded you! It will be toolate. Did you not see the notice at the post-office that lettersought to be in London on the morning of the 10th instead of theevening. Oh, I am so sorry!"
"So am I, but it can't be helped. It is to be hoped it will be thegreater treat when he does get it. I've a far greater weight on myheart, because your father seems so displeased with me. I was fondof him, and now he is making me quite a coward. You see, Molly,"continued she, a little piteously, "I've never lived with people withsuch a high standard of conduct before; and I don't quite know how tobehave."
"You must learn," said Molly tenderly. "You'll find Roger quite asstrict in his notions of right and wrong."
"Ah, but he's in love with me!" said Cynthia, with a prettyconsciousness of her power. Molly turned away her head, and wassilent; it was of no use combating the truth, and she tried rathernot to feel it--not to feel, poor girl, that she too had a greatweight on her heart, into the cause of which she shrank fromexamining. That whole winter long she had felt as if her sun was allshrouded over with grey mist, and could no longer shine brightly forher. She wakened up in the morning with a dull sense of somethingbeing wrong; the world was out of joint, and, if she were born to setit right, she did not know how to do it. Blind herself as she would,she could not help perceiving that her father was not satisfied withthe wife he had chosen. For a long time Molly had been surprised athis apparent contentment; sometimes she had been unselfish enough tobe glad that he was satisfied; but still more frequently nature wouldhave its way, and she was almost irritated at what she consideredhis blindness. Something, however, had changed him now: somethingthat had arisen at the time of Cynthia's engagement. He had becomenervously sensitive to his wife's failings, and his whole mannerhad grown dry and sarcastic, not merely to her, but sometimes toCynthia,--and even--but this very rarely, to Molly herself. He wasnot a man to go into passions, or ebullitions of feeling: they wouldhave relieved him, even while degrading him in his own eyes; buthe became hard, and occasionally bitter in his speeches and ways.Molly now learnt to long after the vanished blindness in which herfather had passed the first year of his marriage; yet there were nooutrageous infractions of domestic peace. Some people might say thatMr. Gibson "accepted the inevitable;" he told himself in more homelyphrase "that it was no use crying over spilt milk:" and he, fromprinciple, avoided all actual dissensions with his wife, preferringto cut short a discussion by a sarcasm, or by leaving the room.Moreover, Mrs. Gibson had a very tolerable temper of her own, and hercat-like nature purred and delighted in smooth ways, and pleasantquietness. She had no great facility for understanding sarcasm; itis true it disturbed her, but as she was not quick at decipheringany depth of meaning, and felt it unpleasant to think about it, sheforgot it as soon as possible. Yet she saw she was often in some kindof disfavour with her husband, and it made her uneasy. She resembledCynthia in this: she liked to be liked; and she wanted to regainthe esteem which she did not perceive she had lost for ever. Mollysometimes took her stepmother's part in secret; she felt as ifshe herself could never have borne her father's hard speeches sopatiently; they would have cut her to the heart, and she must eitherhave demanded an explanation, and probed the sore to the bottom, orsat down despairing and miserable. Instead of which Mrs. Gibson,after her husband had left the room, on these occasions would say ina manner more bewildered than hurt--
"I think dear papa seems a little put out to-day; we must see that hehas a dinner that he likes when he comes home. I have often perceivedthat everything depends on making a man comfortable in his ownhouse."
And thus she went on, groping about to find the means of reinstatingherself in his good graces--really trying, according to her lights,till Molly was ofte
n compelled to pity her in spite of herself, andalthough she saw that her stepmother was the cause of her father'sincreased astringency of disposition. For, indeed, he had got intothat kind of exaggerated susceptibility with regard to his wife'sfaults, which may be best typified by the state of bodily irritationthat is produced by the constant recurrence of any particular noise:those who are brought within hearing of it, are apt to be always onthe watch for the repetition, if they are once made to notice it, andare in an irritable state of nerves.
So that poor Molly had not passed a cheerful winter, independently ofany private sorrows that she might have in her own heart. She did notlook well, either: she was gradually falling into low health, ratherthan bad health. Her heart beat more feebly and slower; the vivifyingstimulant of hope--even unacknowledged hope--was gone out of herlife. It seemed as if there was not, and never could be in thisworld, any help for the dumb discordancy between her father and hiswife. Day after day, month after month, year after year, would Mollyhave to sympathize with her father, and pity her stepmother, feelingacutely for both, and certainly more than Mrs. Gibson felt forherself. Molly could not imagine how she had at one time wished forher father's eyes to be opened, and how she could ever have fanciedthat if they were, he would be able to change things in Mrs. Gibson'scharacter. It was all hopeless, and the only attempt at a remedy wasto think about it as little as possible. Then Cynthia's ways andmanners about Roger gave Molly a great deal of uneasiness. She didnot believe that Cynthia cared enough for him; at any rate, not withthe sort of love that she herself would have bestowed, if she hadbeen so happy--no, that was not it--if she had been in Cynthia'splace. She felt as if she should have gone to him both hands heldout, full and brimming over with tenderness, and been grateful forevery word of precious confidence bestowed on her. Yet Cynthiareceived his letters with a kind of carelessness, and read them witha strange indifference, while Molly sat at her feet, so to speak,looking up with eyes as wistful as a dog's waiting for crumbs, andsuch chance beneficences.
She tried to be patient on these occasions, but at last she mustask--"Where is he, Cynthia? What does he say?" By this time Cynthiahad put down the letter on the table by her, smiling a little fromtime to time, as she remembered the loving compliments it contained.
"Where? Oh, I didn't look exactly--somewhere in Abyssinia--Huon. Ican't read the word, and it doesn't much signify, for it would giveme no idea."
"Is he well?" asked greedy Molly.
"Yes, now. He has had a slight touch of fever, he says; but it's allover now, and he hopes he is getting acclimatized."
"Of fever!--and who took care of him? he would want nursing,--and sofar from home. Oh, Cynthia!"
"Oh, I don't fancy he had any nursing, poor fellow! One doesn'texpect nursing, and hospitals, and doctors in Abyssinia; but he hadplenty of quinine with him, and I suppose that is the best specific.At any rate he says he is quite well now!"
Molly sat silent for a minute or two.
"What is the date of the letter, Cynthia?"
"I didn't look. December the--December the 10th."
"That's nearly two months ago," said Molly.
"Yes; but I determined I wouldn't worry myself with useless anxiety,when he went away. If anything did--go wrong, you know," saidCynthia, using a euphuism for death, as most people do (it is anugly word to speak plain out in the midst of life), "it would be allover before I even heard of his illness, and I could be of no use tohim--could I, Molly?"
"No. I daresay it is all very true; only I should think the Squirecould not take it so easily."
"I always write him a little note when I hear from Roger, but I don'tthink I'll name this touch of fever--shall I, Molly?"
"I don't know," said Molly. "People say one ought, but I almost wishI hadn't heard it. Please, does he say anything else that I mayhear?"
"Oh, lovers' letters are so silly, and I think this is sillier thanusual," said Cynthia, looking over her letter again. "Here's a pieceyou may read, from that line to that," indicating two places. "Ihaven't read it myself for it looked dullish--all about Aristotle andPliny--and I want to get this bonnet-cap made up before we go out topay our calls."
Molly took the letter, the thought crossing her mind that he hadtouched it, had had his hands upon it, in those far distant desertlands, where he might be lost to sight and to any human knowledgeof his fate; even now her pretty brown fingers almost caressed theflimsy paper with their delicacy of touch as she read. She sawreferences made to books, which, with a little trouble, would beaccessible to her here in Hollingford. Perhaps the details and thereferences would make the letter dull and dry to some people, but notto her, thanks to his former teaching and the interest he had excitedin her for his pursuits. But, as he said in apology, what had he towrite about in that savage land, but his love, and his researches,and travels? There was no society, no gaiety, no new books to writeabout, no gossip in Abyssinian wilds.
Molly was not in strong health, and perhaps this made her a littlefanciful; but certain it is that her thoughts by day and her dreamsby night were haunted by the idea of Roger lying ill and untended inthose savage lands. Her constant prayer, "O my Lord! give her theliving child, and in no wise slay it," came from a heart as true asthat of the real mother in King Solomon's judgment. "Let him live,let him live, even though I may never set eyes upon him again. Havepity upon his father! Grant that he may come home safe, and livehappily with her whom he loves so tenderly--so tenderly, O God." Andthen she would burst into tears, and drop asleep at last, sobbing.
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