CHAPTER LIV.
MOLLY GIBSON'S WORTH IS DISCOVERED.
Mr. Gibson came in rubbing his hands after his frosty ride. Mollyjudged from the look in his eye that he had been fully informed ofthe present state of things at the Hall by some one. But he simplywent up to and greeted the Squire, and waited to hear what was saidto him. The Squire was fumbling at the taper on the writing-table,and before he answered much he lighted it, and signing to his friendto follow him, he went softly to the sofa and showed him the sleepingchild, taking the utmost care not to arouse it by flare or sound.
"Well! this is a fine young gentleman," said Mr. Gibson, returningto the fire rather sooner than the Squire expected. "And you've gotthe mother here, I understand. Mrs. Osborne Hamley, as we must callher, poor thing! It's a sad coming home to her; for I hear she knewnothing of his death." He spoke without exactly addressing any one,so that either Molly or the Squire might answer as they liked. TheSquire said,--
"Yes! She's felt it a terrible shock. She's upstairs in the bestbedroom. I should like you to see her, Gibson, if she'll let you. Wemust do our duty by her, for my poor lad's sake. I wish he could haveseen his boy lying there; I do. I daresay it preyed on him to have tokeep it all to himself. He might ha' known me, though. He might ha'known my bark was waur than my bite. It's all over now, though; andGod forgive me if I was too sharp. I'm punished now."
Molly grew impatient on the mother's behalf.
"Papa, I feel as if she was very ill; perhaps worse than we think.Will you go and see her at once?"
Mr. Gibson followed her upstairs, and the Squire came too,thinking that he would do his duty now, and even feeling someself-satisfaction at conquering his desire to stay with the child.They went into the room where she had been taken. She lay quite stillin the same position as at first. Her eyes were open and tearless,fixed on the wall. Mr. Gibson spoke to her, but she did not answer;he lifted her hand to feel her pulse; she never noticed.
"Bring me some wine at once, and order some beef-tea," he said toMolly.
But when he tried to put the wine into her mouth as she lay there onher side, she made no effort to receive or swallow it, and it ran outupon the pillow. Mr. Gibson left the room abruptly; Molly chafed thelittle inanimate hand; the Squire stood by in dumb dismay, touched inspite of himself by the death-in-life of one so young, and who musthave been so much beloved.
Mr. Gibson came back two steps at a time; he was carrying thehalf-awakened child in his arms. He did not scruple to rouse him intoyet further wakefulness--did not grieve to hear him begin to wail andcry. His eyes were on the figure upon the bed, which at that soundquivered all through; and when her child was laid at her back, andbegan caressingly to scramble yet closer, Aimee turned round, andtook him in her arms, and lulled him and soothed him with the softwont of mother's love.
Before she lost this faint consciousness, which was habit or instinctrather than thought, Mr. Gibson spoke to her in French. The child'sone word of "maman" had given him this clue. It was the languagesure to be most intelligible to her dulled brain; and as ithappened,--only Mr. Gibson did not think of that--it was the languagein which she had been commanded, and had learnt to obey.
Mr. Gibson's tongue was a little stiff at first, but by-and-by hespoke it with all his old readiness. He extorted from her shortanswers at first, then longer ones, and from time to time he pliedher with little drops of wine, until some further nourishment shouldbe at hand. Molly was struck by her father's low tones of comfort andsympathy, although she could not follow what was said quickly enoughto catch the meaning of what passed.
By-and-by, however, when her father had done all that he could, andthey were once more downstairs, he told them more about her journeythan they yet knew. The hurry, the sense of acting in defiance ofa prohibition, the over-mastering anxiety, the broken night, andfatigue of the journey, had ill prepared her for the shock at last,and Mr. Gibson was seriously alarmed for the consequences. She hadwandered strangely in her replies to him; he had perceived that shewas wandering, and had made great efforts to recall her senses;but Mr. Gibson foresaw that some bodily illness was coming on,and stopped late that night, arranging many things with Molly andthe Squire. One--the only--comfort arising from her state was theprobability that she would be entirely unconscious by the morrow--theday of the funeral. Worn out by the contending emotions of the day,the Squire seemed now unable to look beyond the wrench and trial ofthe next twelve hours. He sate with his head in his hands, decliningto go to bed, refusing to dwell on the thought of his grandchild--notthree hours ago such a darling in his eyes. Mr. Gibson gave someinstructions to one of the maid-servants as to the watch she was tokeep by Mrs. Osborne Hamley, and insisted on Molly's going to bed.When she pleaded the apparent necessity of her staying up, he said,--
"Now, Molly, look how much less trouble the dear old Squire wouldgive if he would obey orders. He is only adding to anxiety byindulging himself. One pardons everything to extreme grief, however.But you will have enough to do to occupy all your strength for daysto come; and go to bed you must now. I only wish I saw my way asclearly through other things as I do to your nearest duty. I wish I'dnever let Roger go wandering off; he'll wish it too, poor fellow!Did I tell you Cynthia is going off in hot haste to her uncleKirkpatrick's? I suspect a visit to him will stand in lieu of goingout to Russia as a governess."
"I am sure she was quite serious in wishing for that."
"Yes, yes! at the time. I've no doubt she thought she was sincerein intending to go. But the great thing was to get out of theunpleasantness of the present time and place; and uncle Kirkpatrick'swill do this as effectually, and more pleasantly, than a situation atNishni-Novgorod in an ice-palace."
He had given Molly's thoughts a turn, which was what he wanted todo. Molly could not help remembering Mr. Henderson, and his offer,and all the consequent hints; and wondering, and wishing--what didshe wish? or had she been falling asleep? Before she had quiteascertained this point she was asleep in reality.
After this, long days passed over in a monotonous round of care; forno one seemed to think of Molly's leaving the Hall during the woefulillness that befell Mrs. Osborne Hamley. It was not that her fatherallowed her to take much active part in the nursing; the Squire gavehim _carte-blanche_, and he engaged two efficient hospital nurses towatch over the unconscious Aimee; but Molly was needed to receive thefiner directions as to her treatment and diet. It was not that shewas wanted for the care of the little boy; the Squire was too jealousof the child's exclusive love for that, and one of the housemaids wasemployed in the actual physical charge of him; but he needed some oneto listen to his incontinence of language, both when his passionateregret for his dead son came uppermost, and also when he haddiscovered some extraordinary charm in that son's child; and againwhen he was oppressed with the uncertainty of Aimee's long-continuedillness. Molly was not so good or so bewitching a listener toordinary conversation as Cynthia; but where her heart was interestedher sympathy was deep and unfailing. In this case she only wishedthat the Squire could really feel that Aimee was not the encumbrancewhich he evidently considered her to be. Not that he would haveacknowledged the fact, if it had been put before him in plain words.He fought against the dim consciousness of what was in his mind; hespoke repeatedly of patience when no one but himself was impatient;he would often say that when she grew better she must not be allowedto leave the Hall until she was perfectly strong, when no one waseven contemplating the remotest chance of her leaving her child,excepting only himself. Molly once or twice asked her father if shemight not speak to the Squire, and represent the hardship of sendingher away--the improbability that she would consent to quit her boy,and so on but Mr. Gibson only replied,--
"Wait quietly. Time enough when nature and circumstance have hadtheir chance, and have failed."
It was well that Molly was such a favourite with the old servants;for she had frequently to restrain and to control. To be sure, shehad her father's authority to back her; and they were aware thatwhe
re her own comfort, ease, or pleasure was concerned she neverinterfered, but submitted to their will. If the Squire had known ofthe want of attendance to which she submitted with the most perfectmeekness, as far as she herself was the only sufferer, he would havegone into a towering rage. But Molly hardly thought of it, so anxiouswas she to do all she could for others, and to remember the variouscharges which her father gave her in his daily visits. Perhaps hedid not spare her enough; she was willing and uncomplaining; but oneday after Mrs. Osborne Hamley had "taken the turn," as the nursescalled it, when she was lying weak as a new-born baby, but with herfaculties all restored, and her fever gone,--when spring buds wereblooming out, and spring birds sang merrily,--Molly answered to herfather's sudden questioning that she felt unaccountably weary; thather head ached heavily, and that she was aware of a sluggishness ofthought which it required a painful effort to overcome.
"Don't go on," said Mr. Gibson, with a quick pang of anxiety, almostof remorse. "Lie down here--with your back to the light. I'll comeback and see you before I go." And off he went in search of theSquire. He had a good long walk before he came upon Mr. Hamley ina field of spring wheat, where the women were weeding, his littlegrandson holding to his finger in the intervals of short walks ofinquiry into the dirtiest places, which was all his sturdy littlelimbs could manage.
"Well, Gibson, and how goes the patient? Better? I wish we couldget her out of doors, such a fine day as it is. It would make herstrong as soon as anything. I used to beg my poor lad to come outmore. Maybe, I worried him; but the air is the finest thing forstrengthening that I know of. Though, perhaps, she'll not thrive inEnglish air as if she'd been born here; and she'll not be quite righttill she gets back to her native place, wherever that is."
"I don't know. I begin to think we shall get her quite round here;and I don't know that she could be in a better place. But it's notabout her. May I order the carriage for my Molly?" Mr. Gibson's voicesounded as if he was choking a little as he said these last words.
"To be sure," said the Squire, setting the child down. He had beenholding him in his arms the last few minutes: but now he wanted allhis eyes to look into Mr. Gibson's face. "I say," said he, catchinghold of Mr. Gibson's arm, "what's the matter, man? Don't twitch upyour face like that, but speak!"
"Nothing's the matter," said Mr. Gibson, hastily. "Only I want her athome, under my own eye;" and he turned away to go to the house. Butthe Squire left his field and his weeders, and kept at Mr. Gibson'sside. He wanted to speak, but his heart was so full he did not knowwhat to say. "I say, Gibson," he got out at last, "your Molly isliker a child of mine than a stranger; and I reckon we've all on usbeen coming too hard upon her. You don't think there's much amiss, doyou?"
"How can I tell?" said Mr. Gibson, almost savagely. But any hastinessof temper was instinctively understood by the Squire; and he was notoffended, though he did not speak again till they reached the house.Then he went to order the carriage, and stood by sorrowful enoughwhile the horses were being put in. He felt as if he should not knowwhat to do without Molly; he had never known her value, he thought,till now. But he kept silence on this view of the case; which was apraiseworthy effort on the part of one who usually let by-standerssee and hear as much of his passing feelings as if he had had awindow in his breast. He stood by while Mr. Gibson helped thefaintly-smiling, tearful Molly into the carriage. Then the Squiremounted on the step and kissed her hand; but when he tried to thankher and bless her, he broke down; and as soon as he was once moresafely on the ground, Mr. Gibson cried out to the coachman to driveon. And so Molly left Hamley Hall. From time to time her fatherrode up to the window, and made some little cheerful and apparentlycareless remark. When they came within two miles of Hollingford, heput spurs to his horse, and rode briskly past the carriage windows,kissing his hand to the occupant as he did so. He went on to prepareher home for Molly: when she arrived Mrs. Gibson was ready to greether. Mr. Gibson had given one or two of his bright, imperativeorders, and Mrs. Gibson was feeling rather lonely "without either ofher two dear girls at home," as she phrased it, to herself as well asto others.
"Why, my sweet Molly, this is an unexpected pleasure. Only thismorning I said to papa, 'When do you think we shall see our Mollyback?' He did not say much--he never does, you know; but I am sure hethought directly of giving me this surprise, this pleasure. You'relooking a little--what shall I call it? I remember such a pretty lineof poetry, 'Oh, call her fair, not pale!'--so we'll call you fair."
"You'd better not call her anything, but let her get to her own roomand have a good rest as soon as possible. Haven't you got a trashynovel or two in the house? That's the literature to send her tosleep."
He did not leave her till he had seen her laid on a sofa in adarkened room, with some slight pretence of reading in her hand. Thenhe came away, leading his wife, who turned round at the door to kissher hand to Molly, and make a little face of unwillingness to bedragged away.
"Now, Hyacinth," said he, as he took his wife into the drawing-room,"she will need much care. She has been overworked, and I've been afool. That's all. We must keep her from all worry and care,--but Iwon't answer for it that she'll not have an illness, for all that!"
"Poor thing! she does look worn out. She is something like me, herfeelings are too much for her. But now she is come home she shallfind us as cheerful as possible. I can answer for myself; and youreally must brighten up your doleful face, my dear--nothing sobad for invalids as the appearance of depression in those aroundthem. I have had such a pleasant letter from Cynthia to-day. UncleKirkpatrick really seems to make so much of her, he treats her justlike a daughter; he has given her a ticket to the Concerts of AncientMusic; and Mr. Henderson has been to call on her, in spite of allthat has gone before."
For an instant, Mr. Gibson thought that it was easy enough forhis wife to be cheerful, with the pleasant thoughts and evidentanticipations she had in her mind, but a little more difficult forhim to put off his doleful looks while his own child lay in a stateof suffering and illness which might be the precursor of a stillworse malady. But he was always a man for immediate action as soonas he had resolved on the course to be taken; and he knew that "somemust watch, while some must sleep; so runs the world away."
The illness which he apprehended came upon Molly; not violently oracutely, so that there was any immediate danger to be dreaded; butmaking a long pull upon her strength, which seemed to lessen dayby day, until at last her father feared that she might become apermanent invalid. There was nothing very decided or alarming to tellCynthia, and Mrs. Gibson kept the dark side from her in her letters."Molly was feeling the spring weather;" or "Molly had been a gooddeal overdone with her stay at the Hall, and was resting;" suchlittle sentences told nothing of Molly's real state. But then, asMrs. Gibson said to herself, it would be a pity to disturb Cynthia'spleasure by telling her much about Molly; indeed, there was not muchto tell, one day was so like another. But it so happened that LadyHarriet,--who came whenever she could to sit awhile with Molly,at first against Mrs. Gibson's will, and afterwards with her fullconsent,--for reasons of her own, Lady Harriet wrote a letter toCynthia, to which she was urged by Mrs. Gibson. It fell out in thismanner:--One day, when Lady Harriet was sitting in the drawing-roomfor a few minutes after she had been with Molly, she said,--
"Really, Clare, I spend so much time in your house that I'm goingto establish a work-basket here. Mary has infected me with hernotability, and I'm going to work mamma a footstool. It is to bea surprise; and so if I do it here she will know nothing about it.Only I cannot match the gold beads I want for the pansies in thisdear little town; and Hollingford, who could send me down stars andplanets if I asked him, I make no doubt, could no more match beadsthan--"
"My dear Lady Harriet! you forget Cynthia! Think what a pleasure itwould be to her to do anything for you."
"Would it? Then she shall have plenty of it; but mind, it is you whohave answered for her. She shall get me some wool too; how good I amto confer so much pleasure on a fellow-c
reature! But seriously, doyou think I might write and give her a few commissions? Neither Agnesnor Mary are in town--"
"I am sure she would be delighted," said Mrs. Gibson, who also tookinto consideration the reflection of aristocratic honour that wouldfall upon Cynthia if she had a letter from Lady Harriet while atMr. Kirkpatrick's. So she gave the address, and Lady Harriet wrote.All the first part of the letter was taken up with apology andcommissions; but then, never doubting but that Cynthia was aware ofMolly's state, she went on to say--
"I saw Molly this morning. Twice I have been forbidden admittance, asshe was too ill to see any one out of her own family. I wish we couldbegin to perceive a change for the better; but she looks more fadingevery time, and I fear Mr. Gibson considers it a very anxious case."
The day but one after this letter was despatched, Cynthia walked intothe drawing-room at home with as much apparent composure as if shehad left it not an hour before. Mrs. Gibson was dozing, but believingherself to be reading; she had been with Molly the greater part ofthe morning, and now after her lunch, and the invalid's pretence ofearly dinner, she considered herself entitled to some repose. Shestarted up as Cynthia came in:
"Cynthia! Dear child, where have you come from? Why in the world haveyou come? My poor nerves! My heart is quite fluttering; but, to besure, it's no wonder with all this anxiety I have to undergo. Whyhave you come back?"
"Because of the anxiety you speak of, mamma. I never knew,--you nevertold me how ill Molly was."
"Nonsense! I beg your pardon, my dear, but it's really nonsense.Molly's illness is only nervous, Mr. Gibson says. A nervous fever;but you must remember nerves are mere fancy, and she's gettingbetter. Such a pity for you to have left your uncle's. Who told youabout Molly?"
"Lady Harriet. She wrote about some wool--"
"I know,--I know. But you might have known she always exaggeratesthings. Not but what I have been almost worn out with nursing.Perhaps, after all, it is a very good thing you have come, my dear;and now you shall come down into the dining-room and have some lunch,and tell me all the Hyde Park Street news--into my room,--don't gointo yours yet--Molly is so sensitive to noise!"
While Cynthia ate her lunch, Mrs. Gibson went on questioning. "Andyour aunt, how is her cold? And Helen, quite strong again? Margarettaas pretty as ever? The boys are at Harrow, I suppose? And my oldfavourite, Mr. Henderson?" She could not manage to slip in this lastinquiry naturally; in spite of herself there was a change of tone, anaccent of eagerness. Cynthia did not reply on the instant; she pouredherself out some water with great deliberation, and then said,--
"My aunt is quite well; Helen is as strong as she ever is, andMargaretta very pretty. The boys are at Harrow, and I conclude thatMr. Henderson is enjoying his usual health, for he was to dine at myuncle's to-day."
"Take care, Cynthia. Look how you are cutting that gooseberry tart,"said Mrs. Gibson, with sharp annoyance; not provoked by Cynthia'spresent action, although it gave excuse for a little vent of temper."I can't think how you could come off in this sudden kind of way; Iam sure it must have annoyed your uncle and aunt. I daresay they'llnever ask you again."
"On the contrary, I am to go back there as soon as ever I can be easyto leave Molly."
"'Easy to leave Molly.' Now that really is nonsense, and ratheruncomplimentary to me, I must say: nursing her as I have been doing,daily, and almost nightly; for I have been wakened times out ofnumber by Mr. Gibson getting up, and going to see if she had had hermedicine properly."
"I'm afraid she has been very ill?" asked Cynthia.
"Yes, she has, in one way; but not in another. It was what I callmore a tedious, than an interesting illness. There was no immediatedanger, but she lay much in the same state from day to day."
"I wish I had known!" sighed Cynthia. "Do you think I might go andsee her now?"
"I'll go and prepare her. You'll find her a good deal better thanshe has been. Ah; here's Mr. Gibson!" He came into the dining-room,hearing voices. Cynthia thought that he looked much older.
"You here!" said he, coming forward to shake hands. "Why, how did youcome?"
"By the 'Umpire.' I never knew Molly had been so ill, or I would havecome directly." Her eyes were full of tears. Mr. Gibson was touched;he shook her hand again, and murmured, "You're a good girl, Cynthia."
"She's heard one of dear Lady Harriet's exaggerated accounts," saidMrs. Gibson, "and come straight off. I tell her it's very foolish,for Molly is a great deal better now."
"Very foolish," said Mr. Gibson, echoing his wife's words, butsmiling at Cynthia. "But sometimes one likes foolish people for theirfolly, better than wise people for their wisdom."
"I am afraid folly always annoys me," said his wife. "However,Cynthia is here, and what is done, is done."
"Very true, my dear. And now I'll run up and see my little girl,and tell her the good news. You'd better follow me in a couple ofminutes." This to Cynthia.
Molly's delight at seeing her showed itself first in a few happytears; and then in soft caresses and inarticulate sounds of love.Once or twice she began, "It is such a pleasure," and there shestopped short. But the eloquence of these five words sank deep intoCynthia's heart. She had returned just at the right time, when Mollywanted the gentle fillip of the society of a fresh and yet a familiarperson. Cynthia's tact made her talkative or silent, gay or grave,as the varying humour of Molly required. She listened, too, with thesemblance, if not the reality, of unwearied interest, to Molly'scontinual recurrence to all the time of distress and sorrow at HamleyHall, and to the scenes which had then so deeply impressed themselvesupon her susceptible nature. Cynthia instinctively knew that therepetition of all these painful recollections would ease theoppressed memory, which refused to dwell on anything but what hadoccurred at a time of feverish disturbance of health. So she neverinterrupted Molly, as Mrs. Gibson had so frequently done, with--"Youtold me all that before, my dear. Let us talk of something else;" or,"Really I cannot allow you to be always dwelling on painful thoughts.Try and be a little more cheerful. Youth is gay. You are young,and therefore you ought to be gay. That is put in a famous form ofspeech; I forget exactly what it is called."
So Molly's health and spirits improved rapidly after Cynthia'sreturn: and although she was likely to retain many of her invalidhabits during the summer, she was able to take drives, and enjoy thefine weather; it was only her as yet tender spirits that required alittle management. All the Hollingford people forgot that they hadever thought of her except as a darling of the town; and each in hisor her way showed kind interest in her father's child. Miss Browningand Miss Phoebe considered it quite a privilege that they wereallowed to see her a fortnight or three weeks before any one else;Mrs. Goodenough, spectacles on nose, stirred dainty messes in asilver saucepan for Molly's benefit; the Towers sent books, andforced fruit, and new caricatures, and strange and delicate poultry;humble patients of "the doctor," as Mr. Gibson was usually termed,left the earliest cauliflowers they could grow in their cottagegardens, with "their duty for Miss."
And last of all, though strongest in regard, most piteously eager ininterest, came Squire Hamley himself. When she was at the worst, herode over every day to hear the smallest detail, facing even Mrs.Gibson (his abomination) if her husband was not at home, to ask andhear, and ask and hear, till the tears were unconsciously stealingdown his cheeks. Every resource of his heart, or his house, or hislands was searched and tried, if it could bring a moment's pleasureto her; and whatever it might be that came from him, at her veryworst time, it brought out a dim smile upon her face.
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