Wives and Daughters

She was sent home in the carriage, loaded with true thanks from every one of the family. Osborne ransacked the houses for flowers for her; Roger had chosen her out books of every kind. The squire himself kept shaking her hand, without being able to speak his gratitude, till at last he took her in his arms, and kissed her as he would have done a daughter.

CHAPTER 19

Cynthia’s Arrival

Molly’s father was not at home when she returned; and there was no one to give her a welcome. Mrs. Gibson was out paying calls, the servants told Molly. She went upstairs to her own room, meaning to unpack and arrange her borrowed books. Rather to her surprise she saw the chamber, corresponding to her own, being dusted; water and towels too were being carried in.

‘Is any one coming?’ she asked of the housemaid.

‘Missus’s daughter from France. Miss Kirkpatrick is coming to-morrow.’

Was Cynthia coming at last? Oh, what a pleasure it would be to have a companion, a girl, a sister of her own age! Molly’s depressed spirits sprang up again with bright elasticity. She longed for Mrs. Gibson’s return, to ask her all about it: it must be very sudden, for Mr. Gibson had said nothing of it at the Hall the day before. No quiet reading now; the books were hardly put away with Molly’s usual neatness. She went down into the drawing-room, and could not settle to anything. At last Mrs. Gibson came home, tired out with her walk and her heavy velvet cloak. Until that was taken off, and she had rested herself for a few minutes, she seemed quite unable to attend to Molly’s questions.

‘Oh, yes! Cynthia is coming home to-morrow, by the “Umpire,” which passes through at ten o’clock. What an oppressive day it is for the time of the year! I really am almost ready to faint. Cynthia heard of some opportunity, I believe, and was only too glad to leave school a fortnight earlier than we planned. She never gave me the chance of writing to say I did, or did not, like her coming so much before the time; and I shall have to pay for her just the same as if she had stopped. And I meant to have asked her to bring me a French bonnet; and then you could have had one made after mine. But I’m very glad she’s coming, poor dear.’

‘Is anything the matter with her?’ asked Molly.

‘Oh, no! Why should there be?’

‘You called her “poor dear,” and it made me afraid lest she might be ill.’

‘Oh, no! It’s only a way I got into, when Mr. Kirkpatrick died. A fatherless girl—you know one always does call them “poor dears.” Oh, no! Cynthia never is ill. She’s as strong as a horse. She never would have felt to-day as I have done. Could you get me a glass of wine and a biscuit, my dear? I’m really quite faint.’

Mr. Gibson was much more excited about Cynthia’s arrival than her own mother was. He anticipated her coming as a great pleasure to Molly, on whom, in spite of his recent marriage and his new wife, his interests principally centred. He even found time to run upstairs and see the bedrooms of the two girls; for the furniture of which he had paid a pretty round sum.

‘Well, I suppose young ladies like their bedrooms decked out in this way! It’s very pretty certainly, but———’

‘I liked my own old room better, papa; but perhaps Cynthia is accustomed to such decking up.’

‘Perhaps; at any rate, she’ll see we’ve tried to make it pretty. Yours is like hers. That’s right. It might have hurt her, if hers had been smarter than yours. Now, good night in your fine flimsy bed.’

Molly was up betimes—almost before it was light—arranging her pretty Hamley flowers in Cynthia’s room. She could hardly eat her breakfast that morning. She ran upstairs and put on her things, thinking that Mrs. Gibson was quite sure to go down to the ‘Angel Inn,’ where the ‘Umpire’ stopped, to meet her daughter after a two years’ absence. But, to her surprise, Mrs. Gibson had arranged herself at her great worsted-work frame, just as usual; and she, in her turn, was astonished at Molly’s bonnet and cloak.

‘Where are you going so early, child? The fog hasn’t cleared away yet.’

‘I thought you would go and meet Cynthia; and I wanted to go with you.’

‘She will be here in half an hour; and dear papa has told the gardener to take the wheelbarrow down for her luggage. I’m not sure if he is not gone himself.’

‘Then are not you going?’ asked Molly, with a good deal of disappointment.

‘No, certainly not. She will be here almost directly. And, besides, I don’t like to expose my feelings to every passer-by in High Street. You forget I have not seen her for two years, and I hate scenes in the market-place.’

She settled herself to her work again; and Molly, after some consideration, gave up her own grief, and employed herself in looking out of the downstairs window which commanded the approach from the town.

‘Here she is—here she is!’ she cried out at last. Her father was walking by the side of a tall young lady; William the gardener was wheeling along a great cargo of baggage. Molly flew to the front-door, and had it wide open to admit the new-comer some time before she arrived.

‘Well! here she is. Molly, this is Cynthia. Cynthia, Molly. You’re to be sisters, you know.’

Molly saw the beautiful, tall, swaying figure, against the light of the open door, but could not see any of the features that were, for the moment, in shadow. A sudden gush of shyness had come over her just at the instant, and quenched the embrace she would have given a moment before. But Cynthia took her in her arms, and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Here’s mamma,’ she said, looking beyond Molly on to the stairs where Mrs. Gibson stood, wrapped up in a shawl, and shivering in the cold. She ran past Molly and Mr. Gibson, who rather averted their eyes from this first greeting between mother and child.

Mrs. Gibson said—

‘Why, how you are grown, darling! You look quite a woman.’

‘And so I am,’ said Cynthia. ‘I was before I went away; I’ve hardly grown since,—except, it is always to be hoped, in wisdom.’

‘Yes! That we will hope,’ said Mrs. Gibson, in rather a meaning way. Indeed there were evidently hidden allusions in their seeming commonplace speeches. When they all came into the full light and repose of the drawing-room, Molly was absorbed in the contemplation of Cynthia’s beauty. Perhaps her features were not regular; but the changes in her expressive countenance gave one no time to think of that. Her smile was perfect; her pouting charming; the play of the face was in the mouth. Her eyes were beautifully shaped, but their expression hardly seemed to vary. In colouring she was not unlike her mother; only she had not so much of the red-haired tints in her complexion; and her long-shaped, serious grey eyes were fringed with dark lashes, instead of her mother’s insipid flaxen ones. Molly fell in love with her, so to speak, on the instant. She sat there warming her feet and hands, as much at her ease as if she had been there all her life; not particularly attending to her mother—who, all the time, was studying either her or her dress—measuring Molly and Mr. Gibson with grave observant looks, as if guessing how she should like them.

‘There’s hot breakfast ready for you in the dining-room, when you are ready for it,’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘I’m sure you must want it after your night journey.’ He looked round at his wife, at Cynthia’s mother, but she did not seem inclined to leave the warm room again.

‘Molly will take you to your room, darling,’ said she; ‘it is near hers, and she has got her things to take off I’ll come down and sit in the dining-room while you are having your breakfast, but I really am afraid of the cold now.’

Cynthia rose and followed Molly upstairs.

‘I’m so sorry there isn’t a fire for you,’ said Molly, ‘but—I suppose it wasn’t ordered; and, of course, I don’t give orders. Here is some hot water, though.’

‘Stop a minute,’ said Cynthia, getting hold of both Molly’s hands, and looking steadily into her face, but in such a manner that she did not dislike the inspection.

‘I think I shall like you. I am so glad! I was afraid I should not. We’re all in a very awkward position together, aren’t we? I like your father’s looks, though.’

Molly could not help smiling at the way this was said. Cynthia replied to her smile.

‘Ah, you may laugh. But I don’t know that I am easy to get on with; mamma and I didn’t suit when we were last together. But perhaps we are each of us wiser now. Now, please leave me for a quarter of an hour. I don’t want anything more.’

Molly went into her own room, waiting to show Cynthia down to the dining-room. Not that, in the moderate-sized house, there was any difficulty in finding the way. A very little trouble in conjecturing would enable a stranger to discover any room. But Cynthia had so captivated Molly, that she wanted to devote herself to the new-comer’s service. Ever since she had heard of the probability of her having a sister—(she called her a sister, but whether it was a Scotch sister,^ay or a sister à la mode de Bretagne,^az would have puzzled most people)—Molly had allowed her fancy to dwell much on the idea of Cynthia’s coming; and in the short time since they had met, Cynthia’s unconscious power of fascination had been exercised upon her. Some people have this power. Of course, its effects are only manifested in the susceptible. A school girl may be found in every school who attracts and influences all the others, not by her virtues, nor her beauty, nor her sweetness, nor her cleverness, but by something that can neither be described nor reasoned upon. It is the something alluded to in the old lines:—Love me not for comely grace,

For my pleasing eye and face;

No, nor for my constant heart,—

For these may change, and turn to ill,

And thus true love may sever.

But love me on, and know not why,

So hast thou the same reason still

To dote upon me ever.

A woman will have this charm, not only over men but over her own sex; it cannot be defined, or rather it is so delicate a mixture of many gifts and qualities that it is impossible to decide on the proportions of each. Perhaps it is incompatible with very high principle; as its essence seems to consist in the most exquisite power of adaptation to varying people and still more various moods; ‘being all things to all men.’^ba At any rate, Molly might soon have been aware that Cynthia was not remarkable for unflinching morality; but the glamour thrown over her would have prevented Molly from any attempt at penetrating into and judging her companion’s character, even had such processes been the least in accordance with her own disposition.

Cynthia was very beautiful, and was so well aware of this fact that she had forgotten to care about it; no one with such loveliness ever appeared so little conscious of it. Molly would watch her perpetually as she went about the room, with the free stately step of some wild animal of the forest—moving almost, as it were, to the continual sound of music. Her dress, too, though now to our ideas it would be considered ugly and disfiguring, was suited to her complexion and figure, and the fashion of it subdued within due bounds by her exquisite taste. It was inexpensive enough, and the changes in it were but few. Mrs. Gibson professed herself shocked to find that Cynthia had but four gowns, when she might have stocked herself so well, and brought over so many useful French patterns, if she had but patiently waited for her mother’s answer to the letter which she had sent, announcing her return by the opportunity madame had found for her. Molly was hurt for Cynthia at all these speeches; she thought they implied that the pleasure which her mother felt in seeing her a fortnight sooner after her two years’ absence was inferior to that which she would have received from a bundle of silver-paper patterns. But Cynthia took no apparent notice of the frequent recurrence of these small complaints. Indeed, she received much of what her mother said with a kind of complete indifference, that made Mrs. Gibson hold her rather in awe; and she was much more communicative to Molly than to her own child. With regard to dress, however, Cynthia soon showed that she was her mother’s own daughter in the manner in which she could use her deft and nimble fingers. She was a capital work-woman; and, unlike Molly, who excelled in plain sewing but had no notion of dressmaking or millinery, she could repeat the fashions she had only seen in passing along the streets of Boulogne, with one or two pretty rapid movements of her hands, as she turned and twisted the ribbons and gauze her mother furnished her with. So she refurbished Mrs. Gibson’s wardrobe; doing it all in a sort of contemptuous manner, the source of which Molly could not quite make out.

Day after day the course of these small frivolities was broken in upon by the news Mr. Gibson brought of Mrs. Hamley’s nearer approach to death. Molly—very often sitting by Cynthia, and surrounded by ribbon, and wire, and net—heard the bulletins like the toll of a funeral bell at a marriage feast. Her father sympathized with her. It was the loss of a dear friend to him too; but he was so accustomed to death, that it seemed to him but as it was, the natural end of all things human. To Molly, the death of some one she had known so well and loved so much, was a sad and gloomy phenomenon. She loathed the small vanities with which she was surrounded, and would wander out into the frosty garden, and pace the walk, which was both sheltered and concealed by evergreens.

At length—and yet it was not so long, not a fortnight since Molly had left the Hall—the end came. Mrs. Hamley had sunk out of life as gradually as she had sunk out of consciousness and her place in this world. The quiet waves closed over her, and her place knew her no more.

‘They all sent their love to you, Molly,’ said her father. ‘Roger said he knew how you would feel it.’

Mr. Gibson had come in very late, and was having a solitary dinner in the dining-room. Molly was sitting near him to keep him company. Cynthia and her mother were upstairs. The latter was trying on a head-dress which Cynthia had made for her.

Molly remained downstairs after her father had gone out afresh on his final round among his town patients. The fire was growing very low, and the lights were waning. Cynthia came softly in, and taking Molly’s listless hand, that hung down by her side, sat at her feet on the rug, chafing her chilly fingers without speaking. The tender action thawed the tears that had been gathering heavily at Molly’s heart, and they came dropping down her cheeks.

‘You loved her dearly, did you not, Molly?’

‘Yes,’ sobbed Molly; and then there was a silence.

‘Had you known her long?’

‘No, not a year. But I had seen a great deal of her. I was almost like a daughter to her; she said so. Yet I never bid her good-bye, or anything. Her mind became weak and confused.’

‘She had only sons, I think?’

‘No; only Mr. Osborne and Mr. Roger Hamley. She had a daughter once—“Fanny” Sometimes, in her illness, she used to call me “Fanny” .’

The two girls were silent for some time, both gazing into the fire. Cynthia spoke first:—

‘I wish I could love people as you do, Molly!’

‘Don’t you?’ said the other, in surprise.

‘No. A good number of people love me, I believe, or at least they think they do; but I never seem to care much for any one. I do believe I love you, little Molly, whom I have only known for ten days, better than any one.’

‘Not than your mother?’ said Molly, in grave astonishment.

‘Yes, than my mother!’ replied Cynthia, half-smiling. ‘It’s very shocking, I dare say; but it is so. Now, don’t go and condemn me. I don’t think love for one’s mother quite comes by nature; and remember how much I have been separated from mine! I loved my father, if you will,’ she continued, with the force of truth in her tone, and then she stopped; ‘but he died when I was quite a little thing, and no one believes that I remember him. I heard mamma say to a caller, not a fortnight after his funeral, “Oh, no, Cynthia is too young; she has quite forgotten him”—and I bit my lips, to keep from crying out, “Papa! papa! have I?” But it’s of no use. Well, then mamma had to go out as a governess; she couldn’t help it, poor thing! but she didn’t much care for parting with me. I was a trouble, I dare say. So I was sent to school at four years old; first one school, and then another; and in the holidays, mamma went to stay at grand houses, and I was generally left with the schoolmistresses. Once I went to the Towers; and mamma lectured me continually, and yet I was very naughty, I believe. And so I never went again; and I was very glad of it, for it was a horrid place.’

‘That it was,’ said Molly, who remembered her own day of tribulation there.

‘And once I went to London, to stay with my uncle Kirkpatrick. He is a lawyer, and getting on now; but then he was poor enough, and had six or seven children. It was winter-time, and we were all shut up in a small house in Doughty Street. But, after all, that wasn’t so bad.’

‘But then you lived with your mother when she began school at Ashcombe. Mr. Preston told me that, when I stayed that day at the Manor-house.’

‘What did he tell you?’ asked Cynthia, almost fiercely.

‘Nothing but that. Oh, yes! He praised your beauty and wanted me to tell you what he had said.’

‘I should have hated you if you had,’ said Cynthia.

‘Of course I never thought of doing such a thing,’ replied Molly. ‘I didn’t like him; and Lady Harriet spoke of him the next day as if he wasn’t a person to be liked.’

Cynthia was quite silent. At length she said,—

‘I wish I was good!’

‘So do I,’ said Molly, simply. She was thinking again of Mrs. Hamley,—Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust,

and ‘goodness’ just then seemed to her to be the only endearing thing in the world.

‘Nonsense, Molly! You are good. At least, if you’re not good, what am I? There’s a rule-of-three sum for you to do! But it’s no use talking; I am not good, and I never shall be now. Perhaps I might be a heroine still, but I shall never be a good woman, I know.’

‘Do you think it easier to be a heroine?’

‘Yes, as far as one knows of heroines from history. I’m capable of a great jerk, an effort, and then a relaxation—but steady, everyday goodness is beyond me. I must be a moral kangaroo!’

Molly could not follow Cynthia’s ideas; she could not distract herself from the thoughts of the sorrowing group at the Hall.

‘How I should like to see them all! and yet one can do nothing at such a time! Papa says the funeral is to be on Tuesday, and that, after that, Roger Hamley is to go back to Cambridge. It will seem as if nothing had happened! I wonder how the squire and Mr. Osborne Hamley will get on together.’

‘He’s the eldest son, is he not? Why shouldn’t he and his father get on well together?’

‘Oh! I don’t know. That is to say, I do know, but I think I ought not to tell.’

‘Don’t be so pedantically truthful, Molly. Besides, your manner shows when you speak the truth and when you speak falsehood, without troubling yourself to use words. I knew exactly what your “I don’t know” meant. I never consider myself bound to be truthful, so I beg we may be on equal terms.’

Cynthia might well say she did not consider herself bound to be truthful; she literally said what came uppermost, without caring very much whether it was accurate or not. But there was no ill-nature, and, in a general way, no attempt at procuring any advantage for herself in all her deviations; and there was often such a latent sense of fun in them that Molly could not help being amused with them in fact, though she condemned them in theory. Cynthia’s playfulness of manner glossed such failings over with a kind of charm; and yet, at times, she was so soft and sympathetic that Molly could not resist her, even when she affirmed the most startling things. The little account she made of her own beauty pleased Mr. Gibson extremely; and her pretty deference to him won his heart. She was restless too, till she had attacked Molly’s dress, after she had remodelled her mother’s.

‘Now for you, sweet one,’ said she, as she began upon one of Molly’s gowns. ‘I’ve been working as connoisseur until now. Now I begin as amateur.’

She brought down her pretty artificial flowers, plucked out of her own best bonnet to put into Molly’s, saying they would suit her complexion, and that a knot of ribbons would do well enough for her. All the time she worked, she sang; she had a sweet voice in singing, as well as in speaking, and used to run up and down her gay French chansons^bb without any difficulty; so flexible in the art was she. Yet she did not seem to care for music. She rarely touched the piano on which Molly practised with daily conscientiousness. Cynthia was always willing to answer questions about her previous life, though, after the first, she rarely alluded to it of herself; but she was a most sympathetic listener to all Molly’s innocent confidences of joys and sorrows: sympathizing even to the extent of wondering how she could endure Mr. Gibson’s second marriage, and why she did not take some active steps of rebellion.

In spite of all this agreeable and pungent variety of companionship at home, Molly yearned after the Hamleys. If there had been a woman in that family she would probably have received many little notes, and heard numerous details which were now lost to her, or summed up in condensed accounts of her father’s visits at the Hall, which, since his dear patient was dead, were only occasional.

‘Yes! The squire is a good deal changed; but he’s better than he was. There’s an unspoken estrangement between him and Osborne; one can see it in the silence and constraint of their manners; but outwardly they are friendly—civil at any rate. The squire will always respect Osborne as his heir, and the future representative of the family. Osborne doesn’t look well; he says he wants change. I think he’s weary of the domestic tête-à-tête, or domestic dissension. But he feels his mother’s death acutely. It’s a wonder that he and his father are not drawn together by their common loss. Roger’s away at Cambridge too—examination for the mathematical tripos.^bc Altogether the aspect of both people and place is changed; it is but natural!’

Such is perhaps the summing-up of the news of the Hamleys, as contained in many bulletins. They always ended in some kind message to Molly.

Mrs. Gibson generally said, as a comment upon her husband’s account of Osborne’s melancholy—

‘My dear! why don’t you ask him to dinner here? A little quiet dinner, you know. Cook is quite up to it; and we would all of us wear blacks and lilacs; he couldn’t consider that as gaiety.’

Mr. Gibson took no more notice of these suggestions than by shaking his head. He had grown accustomed to his wife by this time, and regarded silence on his own part as a great preservative against long inconsequential arguments. But every time that Mrs. Gibson was struck by Cynthia’s beauty, she thought it more and more advisable that Mr. Osborne Hamley should be cheered up by a quiet little dinner-party. As yet no one but the ladies of Hollingford and Mr. Ashton, the vicar—that hopeless and impracticable old bachelor—had seen Cynthia, and what was the good of having a lovely daughter if there were none but old women to admire her?

Cynthia herself appeared extremely indifferent upon the subject, and took very little notice of her mother’s constant talk about the gaieties that were possible and the gaieties that were impossible, in Hollingford. She exerted herself just as much to charm the two Miss Brownings as she would have done to delight Osborne Hamley, or any other young heir. That is to say, she used no exertion, but simply followed her own nature, which was to attract every one of those she was thrown amongst. The exertion seemed rather to be to refrain from doing so, and to protest, as she so often did, by slight words and expressive looks against her mother’s words and humours—alike against her folly and her caresses. Molly was almost sorry for Mrs. Gibson, who seemed so unable to gain influence over her child. One day Cynthia read Molly’s thought.

‘I am not good, and I told you so. Somehow, I cannot forgive her for her neglect of me as a child, when I would have clung to her. Besides, I hardly ever heard from her when I was at school. And I know she put a stop to my coming over to her wedding. I saw the letter she wrote to Madame Lefebre. A child should be brought up with its parents, if it is to think them infallible when it grows up.’

‘But though it may know that there must be faults,’ replied Molly, ‘it ought to cover them over and try to forget their existence.’

‘It ought. But don’t you see I have grown up outside the pale of duty and “oughts.” Love me as I am, sweet one, for I shall never be better.’

CHAPTER 20

Mrs. Gibson’s Visitors

One day, to Molly’s infinite surprise, Mr. Preston was announced as a caller. Mrs. Gibson and she were sitting together in the drawing-room; Cynthia was out—gone into the town a-shopping—when the door was opened, the name given, and in walked the young man. His entrance seemed to cause more confusion than Molly could well account for. He came in with the same air of easy assurance with which he had received her and her father at Ashcombe Manor-house. He looked remarkably handsome in his riding-dress, and with the open-air exercise he had just had. But Mrs. Gibson’s smooth brows contracted a little at the sight of him, and her reception of him was much cooler than that which she usually gave to visitors. Yet there was a degree of agitation in it, which surprised Molly a little. Mrs. Gibson was at her everlasting worsted-work frame when he entered the room; but somehow in rising to receive him, she threw down her basket of crewels, and, declining Molly’s offer to help her, she would pick up all the reels herself, before she asked her visitor to sit down. He stood there, hat in hand, affecting an interest in the recovery of the worsted which Molly was sure he did not feel; for all the time his eyes were glancing round the room, and taking note of the details in the arrangement.

At length they were seated, and conversation began.

‘It is the first time I have been in Hollingford since your marriage, Mrs. Gibson, or I should certainly have called to pay my respects sooner.’

‘I know you are very busy at Ashcombe. I did not expect you to call. Is Lord Cumnor at the Towers? I have not heard from her ladyship for more than a week!’

‘No! he seemed still detained at Bath. But I had a letter from him giving me certain messages for Mr. Sheepshanks. Mr. Gibson is not at home, I’m afraid?’

‘No. He is a great deal out—almost constantly, I may say. I had no idea that I should see so little of him. A doctor’s wife leads a very solitary life, Mr. Preston!’

‘You can hardly call it solitary, I should think, when you have such a companion as Miss Gibson always at hand,’ said he, bowing to Molly.

‘Oh, but I call it solitude for a wife when her husband is away. Poor Mr. Kirkpatrick was never happy unless I always went with him;—all his walks, all his visits, he liked me to be with him. But somehow Mr. Gibson feels as if I should be rather in his way.’

‘I don’t think you could ride pillion behind him on Black Bess, mamma,’ said Molly. ‘And unless you could do that, you could hardly go with him in his rounds up and down all the rough lanes.’

‘Oh! but he might keep a brougham! I’ve often said so. And then I could use it for visiting in the evenings. Really it was one reason why I didn’t go to the Holllngford Charity Ball. I couldn’t bring myself to use the dirty fly from the “Angel.” We really must stir papa up against next winter, Molly; it will never do for you and———’

She pulled herself up suddenly, and looked furtively at Mr. Preston to see if he had taken any notice of her abruptness. Of course he had, but he was not going to show it. He turned to Molly, and said—

‘Have you ever been to a public ball yet, Miss Gibson?’

‘No!’ said Molly.

‘It will be a great pleasure to you when the time comes.’

‘I’m not sure. I shall like it if I have plenty of partners; but I’m afraid I shan’t know many people.’

‘And you suppose that young men haven’t their own ways and means of being introduced to pretty girls?’

It was exactly one of the speeches Molly had disliked him for before; and delivered, too, in that kind of underbred manner which showed that it was meant to convey a personal compliment. Molly took great credit to herself for the unconcerned manner with which she went on with her tatting exactly as if she had never heard it.

‘I only hope I may be one of your partners at the first ball you go to. Pray, remember my early application for that honour, when you are overwhelmed with requests for dances.’

‘I don’t choose to engage myself beforehand,’ said Molly, perceiving, from under her dropped eyelids, that he was leaning forward and looking at her as though he was determined to have an answer.

‘Young ladies are always very cautious in fact, however modest they may be in profession,’ he replied, addressing himself in a nonchalant manner to Mrs. Gibson. ‘In spite of Miss Gibson’s apprehension of not having many partners, she declines the certainty of having one. I suppose Miss Kirkpatrick will have returned from France before then?’

He said these last words exactly in the same tone as he had used before; but Molly’s instinct told her that he was making an effort to do so. She looked up. He was playing with his hat, almost as if he did not care to have any answer to his question. Yet he was listening acutely, and with a half smile on his face.

Mrs. Gibson reddened a little, and hesitated—

‘Yes; certainly. My daughter will be with us next winter, I believe; and I dare say she will go out with us.’

‘Why can’t she say at once that Cynthia is here now?’ asked Molly of herself, yet glad that Mr. Preston’s curiosity was baffled.

He still smiled; but this time he looked up at Mrs. Gibson, as he asked—‘You have good news from her, I hope?’

‘Yes; very. By the way, how are our old friends the Robinsons? How often I think of their kindness to me at Ashcombe! Dear good people, I wish I could see them again.’

‘I will certainly tell them of your kind inquiries. They are very well, I believe.’

Just at this moment, Molly heard the familiar sound of the click and opening of the front door. She knew it must be Cynthia; and, conscious of some mysterious reason which made Mrs. Gibson wish to conceal her daughter’s whereabouts from Mr. Preston, and maliciously desirous to baffle him, she rose to leave the room, and meet Cynthia on the stairs; but one of the lost crewels of worsted had entangled itself in her gown and feet, and before she had freed herself of her encumbrance, Cynthia had opened the drawing-room door, and stood in it, looking at her mother, at Molly, at Mr. Preston, but not advancing one step. Her colour, which had been brilliant the first moment of her entrance, faded away as she gazed; but her eyes—her beautiful eyes—usually so soft and grave, seemed to fill with fire, and her brows to contract, as she took the resolution to come forward and take her place among the three, who were all looking at her with different emotions. She moved calmly and slowly forwards; Mr. Preston went a step or two to meet her, his hand held out, and the whole expression of his face that of eager delight.

But she took no notice of the outstretched hand, nor of the chair that he offered her. She sat down on a little sofa in one of the windows, and called Molly to her.

‘Look at my purchases,’ said she.‘This green ribbon was fourteen-pence a yard, this silk three shillings,’ and so she went on, forcing herself to speak about these trifles as if they were all the world to her, and she had no attention to throw away on her mother and her mother’s visitor.

Mr. Preston took his cue from her. He, too, talked of the news of the day, the local gossip—but Molly, who glanced up at him from time to time, was almost alarmed by the bad expression of suppressed anger, nearly amounting to vindictiveness, which entirely marred his handsome looks. She did not wish to look again; and tried rather to back up Cynthia’s efforts at maintaining a separate conversation. Yet she could not help overhearing Mrs. Gibson’s strain after increased civility, as if to make up for Cynthia’s rudeness, and, if possible, to deprecate his anger. She talked perpetually, as though her object were to detain him; whereas, previous to Cynthia’s return, she had allowed frequent pauses in the conversation, as though to give him the opportunity to take his leave.

In the course of the conversation between them, the Hamleys came up. Mrs. Gibson was never unwilling to dwell upon Molly’s intimacy with this county family; and when the latter caught the sound of her own name, her stepmother was saying—

‘Poor Mrs. Hamley could hardly do without Molly; she quite looked upon her as a daughter, especially towards the last, when, I am afraid, she had a good deal of anxiety. Mr. Osborne Hamley—I dare say you have heard—he did not do so well at college, and they had expected so much—parents will, you know; but what did it signify? for he had not to earn his living! I call it a very foolish kind of ambition when a young man has not to go into a profession.’

‘Well, at any rate, the squire must be satisfied now. I saw this morning’s Times, with the Cambridge examination lists in it. Isn’t the second son called after his father, Roger?’

‘Yes,’ said Molly, starting up, and coming nearer.

‘He’s senior wrangler,^bd that’s all,’ said Mr. Preston, almost as though he were vexed with himself for having anything to say that could give her pleasure. Molly went back to her seat by Cynthia.

‘Poor Mrs. Hamley,’ said she, very softly, as if to herself. Cynthia took her hand, in sympathy with Molly’s sad and tender look, rather than because she understood all that was passing in her mind, nor did she quite understand it herself. A death that had come out of time; a wonder whether the dead knew what passed upon the earth they had left—the brilliant Osborne’s failure, Roger’s success; the vanity of human wishes—all these thoughts, and what they suggested, were inextricably mingled up in her mind. She came to herself in a few minutes. Mr. Preston was saying all the unpleasant things he could think of about the Hamleys in a tone of false sympathy.

‘The poor old squire—not the wisest of men—has wofully mismanaged his estate. And Osborne Hamley is too fine a gentleman to understand the means by which to improve the value of the land—even if he had the capital. A man who had practical knowledge of agriculture, and some thousands of ready-money might bring the rental up to eight thousand or so. Of course, Osborne will try and marry some one with money; the family is old and well-established, and he mustn’t object to commercial descent, though I dare say the squire will for him; but then the young fellow himself is not a man for the work. No! the family’s going down fast; and it’s a pity when these old Saxon houses vanish off the land; but it is “kismet” with the Hamleys. Even the senior wrangler—if it is that Roger Hamley—he will have spent all his brains in one effort. You never hear of a senior wrangler being worth anything afterwards. He’ll be a Fellow of his college,^be of course—that will be a livelihood for him at any rate.’

‘I believe in senior wranglers,’ said Cynthia, her clear high voice ringing through the room. ‘And from all I’ve ever heard of Mr. Roger Hamley, I believe he will keep up the distinction he has earned. And I don’t believe that the house of Hamley is so near extinction in wealth and fame, and good name.’

‘They are fortunate in having Miss Kirkpatrick’s good word,’ said Mr. Preston, rising to take his leave.

‘Dear Molly,’ said Cynthia, in a whisper, ‘I know nothing about your friends the Hamleys, except that they are your friends and what you have told me about them. But I won’t have that man speaking of them so—and your eyes filling with tears all the time. I’d sooner swear to their having all the talents and good fortune under the sun.’

The only person of whom Cynthia appeared to be wholesomely afraid was Mr. Gibson. When he was present she was more careful in speaking, and showed more deference to her mother. Her evident respect for Mr. Gibson, and desire for his good opinion, made her curb herself before him; and in this manner she earned his good favour as a lively, sensible girl, with just so much knowledge of the world as made her a very desirable companion to Molly. Indeed, she made something of the same kind of impression on all men. They were first struck with her personal appearance; and then with her pretty deprecating manner, which appealed to them much as if she had said, ‘You are wise, and I am foolish—have mercy on my folly.’ It was a way she had; it meant nothing really; and she was hardly conscious of it herself; but it was very captivating all the same. Even old Williams, the gardener, felt it; he said to his confidante, Molly—

‘Eh, miss, but that be a rare young lady! She do have such pretty coaxing ways. I be to teach her to bud roses come the season—and I’ll warrant ye she’ll learn sharp enough, for all she says she be’s so stupid.’

If Molly had not had the sweetest disposition in the world she might have become jealous of all the allegiance laid at Cynthia’s feet; but she never thought of comparing the amount of admiration and love which they each received. Yet once she did feel a little as if Cynthia were poaching on her manor. The invitation to the quiet dinner had been sent to Osborne Hamley, and declined by him. But he thought it right to call soon afterwards. It was the first time Molly had seen any of the family since she left the Hall, since Mrs. Hamley’s death; and there was so much that she wanted to ask. She tried to wait patiently till Mrs. Gibson had exhausted the first gush of her infinite nothings; and then Molly came in with her modest questions. How was the squire? Had he returned to his old habits? Had his health suffered? —putting each inquiry with as light and delicate a touch as if she had been dressing a wound. She hesitated a little, a very little, before speaking of Roger; for just one moment the thought flitted across her mind that Osborne might feel the contrast between his own and his brother’s college career too painfully to like to have it referred to; but then she remembered the generous brotherly love that had always existed between the two, and had just entered upon the subject, when Cynthia, in obedience to her mother’s summons, came into the room, and took up her work. No one could have been quieter—she hardly uttered a word; but Osborne seemed to fall under her power at once. He no longer gave his undivided attention to Molly. He cut short his answers to her questions; and by and by, without Molly’s rightly understanding how it was, he had turned towards Cynthia, and was addressing himself to her. Molly saw the look of content on Mrs. Gibson’s face; perhaps it was her own mortification at not having heard all she wished to know about Roger, that gave her a keener insight than usual, but certain it is that all at once she perceived that Mrs. Gibson would not dislike a marriage between Osborne and Cynthia, and considered the present occasion as an auspicious beginning. Remembering the secret which she had been let into so unwillingly, Molly watched his behaviour almost as if she had been retained in the interest of the absent wife; but, after all, thinking as much of the possibility of his attracting Cynthia as of the unknown and mysterious Mrs. Osborne Hamley. His manner was expressive of great interest and of strong prepossession in favour of the beautiful girl to whom he was talking. He was in deep mourning, which showed off his slight figure and delicate refined face. But there was nothing of flirting, as far as Molly understood the meaning of the word, in either looks or words. Cynthia, too, was extremely quiet; she was always much quieter with men than with women; it was part of the charm of her soft allurement that she was so passive. They were talking of France. Mrs. Gibson herself had passed two or three years of her girlhood there; and Cynthia’s late return from Boulogne made it a very natural subject of conversation. But Molly was thrown out of it; and with her heart still unsatisfied as to the details of Roger’s success, she had to stand up at last, and receive Osborne’s good-bye, scarcely longer or more intimate than his farewell to Cynthia. As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Gibson began in his praise.

‘Well, really, I begin to have some faith in long descent. What a gendeman he is! How agreeable and polite! So different from that forward Mr. Preston,’ she continued, looking a little anxious at Cynthia. Cynthia, quite aware that her reply was being watched for, said, coolly—

‘Mr. Preston doesn’t improve on acquaintance. There was a time, mamma, when I think both you and I thought him very agreeable.’

‘I don’t remember. You’ve a clearer memory than I have. But we were talking of this delightful Mr. Osborne Hamley. Why, Molly, you were always talking of his brother—it was Roger this, and Roger that—I can’t think how it was you so seldom mentioned this young man.

‘I didn’t know I had mentioned Mr. Roger Hamley so often,’ said Molly, blushing a little. ‘But I saw much more of him—he was more at home.’

‘Well, well! It’s all right, my dear. I dare say he suits you best. But really, when I saw Osborne Hamley close to my Cynthia, I couldn’t help thinking—but perhaps I’d better not tell you what I was thinking of. Only they are each of them so much above the average in appearance; and, of course, that suggests things.’

‘I perfectly understand what you are thinking of, mamma,’ said Cynthia, with the greatest composure; ‘and so does Molly, I have no doubt.’

‘Well! there’s no harm in it, I’m sure. Did you hear him say that, though he did not like to leave his father alone just at present, yet that when his brother Roger came back from Cambridge, he should feel more at liberty! It was quite as much as to say, “If you will ask me to dinner then, I shall be delighted to come.” And chickens will be so much cheaper, and cook has such a nice way of boning them, and doing them up with forcemeat. Everything seems to be falling out so fortunately. And Molly, my dear, you know I won’t forget you. By and by, when Roger Hamley has taken his turn at stopping at home with his father, we will ask him to one of our little quiet dinners.’

Molly was very slow at taking this in; but in about a minute the sense of it had reached her brain, and she went all over very red and hot; especially as she saw that Cynthia was watching the light come into her mind with great amusement.

‘I’m afraid Molly isn’t properly grateful, mamma. If I were you, I wouldn’t exert myself to give a dinner-party on her account. Bestow all your kindness upon me.’

Molly was often puzzled by Cynthia’s speeches to her mother; and this was one of these occasions. But she was more anxious to say something for herself; she was so much annoyed at the implication in Mrs. Gibson’s last words.

‘Mr. Roger Hamley has been very good to me; he was a great deal at home when I was there, and Mr. Osborne Hamley was very little there: that was the reason I spoke so much more of one than the other. If I had—if he had,’—losing her coherence in the difficulty of finding words—‘I don’t think I should—oh, Cynthia, instead of laughing at me, I think you might help me to explain myself!’

Instead, Cynthia gave a diversion to the conversation.

‘Mamma’s paragon gives me an idea of weakness. I can’t quite make out whether it is in body or mind. Which is it, Molly?’

‘He is not strong, I know; but he is very accomplished and clever. Every one says that—even papa, who doesn’t generally praise young men. That made the puzzle the greater when he did so badly at college.’

‘Then it’s his character that is weak. I’m sure there’s weakness somewhere; but he’s very agreeable. It must have been very pleasant, staying at the Hall.’

‘Yes; but it’s all over now.’

‘Oh, nonsense!’ said Mrs. Gibson, wakening up from counting the stitches in her pattern. ‘We shall have the young men coming to dinner pretty often, you’ll see. Your father likes them, and I shall always make a point of welcoming his friends. They can’t go on mourning for a mother for ever. I expect we shall see a great deal of them; and that the two families will become very intimate. After all, these good Hollingford people are terribly behindhand, and I should say, rather commonplace.’

CHAPTER 21

The Half-Sisters

It appeared as if Mrs. Gibson’s predictions were likely to be verified; for Osborne Hamley found his way to her drawing-room pretty frequently. To be sure, sometimes prophets can help on the fulfilment of their own prophecies; and Mrs. Gibson was not passive.

Molly was altogether puzzled by his manners and ways. He spoke of occasional absences from the Hall, without exactly saying where he had been. But that was not her idea of the conduct of a married man; who, she imagined, ought to have a house and servants, and pay rent and taxes, and live with his wife. Who this mysterious wife might be faded into insignificance before the wonder of where she was. London, Cambridge, Dover, nay, even France, were mentioned by him as places to which he had been on these different little journeys. These facts came out quite casually, almost as if he was unaware of what he was betraying; sometimes he dropped out such sentences as these: ‘Ah, that would be the day I was crossing! It was stormy indeed! Instead of our being only two hours, we were nearly five.’ Or, ‘I met Lord Hollingford at Dover last week, and he said,’ &c. ‘The cold now is nothing to what it was in London on Thursday—the thermometer was down at 15°.’ Perhaps, in the rapid flow of conversation, these small revelations were noticed by no one but Molly; whose interest and curiosity were always hovering over the secret she had become possessed of, in spite of all her self-reproach for allowing her thoughts to dwell on what was still to be kept as a mystery.

It was also evident to her that Osborne was not too happy at home. He had lost the slight touch of cynicism which he had affected when he was expected to do wonders at college; and that was one good result of his failure. If he did not give himself the trouble of appreciating other people, and their performances, at any rate his conversation was not so amply sprinkled with critical pepper. He was more absent, not so agreeable, Mrs. Gibson thought but did not say. He looked ill in health; but that might be the consequence of the real depression of spirits which Molly occasionally saw peeping out through all his pleasant surface-talk. Now and then, when he was talking directly to her, he referred to ‘the happy days that are gone,’ or to ‘the time when my mother was alive’; and then his voice sank, and a gloom came over his countenance, and Molly longed to express her own deep sympathy. He did not often mention his father; and Molly thought she could read in his manner, when he did, that something of the painful restraint she had noticed when she was last at the Hall still existed between them. Nearly all that she knew of the family interior she had heard from Mrs. Hamley, and she was uncertain as to how far her father was acquainted with them; so she did not like to question him too closely; nor was he a man to be so questioned as to the domestic affairs of his patients. Sometimes she wondered if it was a dream—that short half-hour in the library at Hamley Hall—when she had learnt a fact which seemed so all-important to Osborne, yet which made so little difference in his way of life—either in speech or action. During the twelve or fourteen hours that she had remained at the Hall afterwards, no further allusion had been made to his marriage, either by himself or by Roger. It was, indeed, very like a dream. Probably Molly would have been rendered much more uncomfortable in the possession of her secret if Osborne had struck her as particularly attentive in his devotion to Cynthia. She evidently amused and attracted him, but not in any lively or passionate kind of manner. He admired her beauty, and seemed to feel her charm; but he would leave her side, and come to sit near Molly, if anything reminded him of his mother, about which he could talk to her, and to her alone. Yet he came so often to the Gibsons, that Mrs. Gibson might be excused for the fancy she had taken into her head, that it was for Cynthia’s sake. He liked the lounge, the friendliness, the company of two intelligent girls of beauty and manners above the average; one of whom stood in a peculiar relation to him, as having been especially beloved by the mother whose memory he cherished so fondly. Knowing himself to be out of the category of bachelors, he was, perhaps, too indifferent as to other people’s ignorance, and its possible consequences.

Somehow, Molly did not like to be the first to introduce Roger’s name into the conversation, so she lost many an opportunity of hearing intelligence about him. Osborne was often so languid or so absent that he only followed the lead of talk; and as an awkward fellow, who had paid her no particular attention, and as a second son, Roger was not pre-eminent in Mrs. Gibson’s thoughts; Cynthia had never seen him, and the freak did not take her often to speak about him. He had not come home since he had obtained his high place in the mathematical lists: that Molly knew; and she knew, too, that he was working hard for something—she supposed a fellowship—and that was all. Osborne’s tone in speaking of him was always the same: every word, every inflexion of the voice breathed out affection and respect—nay, even admiration! And this from the nil admirari^bf brother, who seldom carried his exertions so far.

‘Ah, Roger!’ he said one day. Molly caught the name in an instant, though she had not heard what had gone before. ‘He is a fellow in a thousand—in a thousand, indeed! I don’t believe there is his match anywhere for goodness and real solid power combined.’

‘Molly,’ said Cynthia, after Mr. Osborne Hamley had gone, ‘what sort of a man is this Roger Hamley? One can’t tell how much to believe of his brother’s praises; for it is the one subject on which Osborne Hamley becomes enthusiastic. I’ve noticed it once or twice before.’

While Molly hesitated on which point of the large round to begin her description, Mrs. Gibson struck in—

‘It just shows what a sweet disposition Osborne Hamley is of—that he should praise his brother as he does. I dare say he is a senior wrangler, and much good may it do him! I don’t deny that; but as for conversation, he’s as heavy as heavy can be. A great awkward fellow to boot, who looks as if he did not know two and two made four, for all he is such a mathematical genius. You would hardly believe he was Osborne Hamley’s brother to see him! I should not think he has a profile at all.’

‘What do you think of him, Molly?’ said the persevering Cynthia.

‘I like him,’ said Molly. ‘He has been very kind to me. I know he isn’t handsome like Osborne.’

It was rather difficult to say all this quietly, but Molly managed to do it, quite aware that Cynthia would not rest till she had extracted some kind of an opinion out of her.

‘I suppose he will come home at Easter,’ said Cynthia, ‘and then I shall see him for myself’

‘It’s a great pity that their being in mourning will prevent their going to the Easter charity ball,’ said Mrs. Gibson, plaintively. ‘I shan’t like to take you two girls, if you are not to have any partners. It will put me in such an awkward position. I wish we could join on to the Towers party. That would secure you partners, for they always bring a number of dancing men, who might dance with you after they had done their duty by the ladies of the house. But really everything is so changed since dear Lady Cumnor has been an invalid that, perhaps, they won’t go at all.’

This Easter ball was a great subject of conversation with Mrs. Gibson. She sometimes spoke of it as her first appearance in society as a bride, though she had been visiting once or twice a week all winter long. Then she shifted her ground, and said she felt so much interest in it because she would then have the responsibility of introducing both her own and Mr. Gibson’s daughter to public notice, though the fact was that pretty nearly every one who was going to this ball had seen the two young ladies—though not their ball dresses—before. But, aping the manners of the aristocracy as far as she knew them, she intended to ‘bring out’ Molly and Cynthia on this occasion, which she regarded in something of the light of a presentation at Court. ‘They are not out yet,’ was her favourite excuse when either of them was invited to any house to which she did not wish them to go, or they were invited without her. She even made a difficulty about their ‘not being out’ when Miss Browning—that old friend of the Gibson family—came in one morning to ask the two girls to come to a friendly tea and a round game afterwards; this mild piece of gaiety being designed as an attention to three of Mrs. Goodenough’s grandchildren—two young ladies and their schoolboy brother—who were staying on a visit to their grandmamma.

‘You are very kind, Miss Browning, but, you see, I hardly like to let them go—they are not out, you know, till after the Easter ball.’

‘Till when we are invisible,’ said Cynthia, always ready with her mockery to exaggerate any pretension of her mother’s. ‘We are so high in rank that our sovereign must give us her sanction before we can play a round game at your house.’

Cynthia enjoyed the idea of her own full-grown size and stately gait, as contrasted with that of a meek, half-fledged girl in the nursery; but Miss Browning was half puzzled and half affronted.

‘I don’t understand it at all. In my days girls went wherever it pleased people to ask them, without this farce of bursting out in all their new fine clothes at some public place. I don’t mean but what the gentry took their daughters to York, or Matlock, or Bath, to give them a taste of gay society when they were growing up; and the quality went up to London, and their young ladies were presented to Queen Charlotte, and went to a birthday ball, perhaps. But for us little Hollingford people, why, we knew every child amongst us from the day of its birth; and many a girl of twelve or fourteen have I seen go out to a card-party, and sit quiet at her work, and know how to behave as well as any lady there. There was no talk of “coming out” in those days for any one under the daughters of a squire.’

‘After Easter, Molly and I shall know how to behave at a card-party, but not before,’ said Cynthia, demurely.

‘You’re always fond of your quips and your cranks, my dear,’ said Miss Browning, ‘and I wouldn’t quite answer for your behaviour: you sometimes let your spirits carry you away. But I’m quite sure Molly will be a little lady as she always is, and always was, and I have known her from a babe.’

Mrs. Gibson took up arms on behalf of her own daughter, or, rather, she took up arms against Molly’s praises.

‘I don’t think you would have called Molly a lady the other day, Miss Browning, if you had found her where I did: sitting up in a cherry-tree, six feet from the ground at least, I do assure you.’

‘Oh! but that wasn’t pretty,’ said Miss Browning, shaking her head at Molly. ‘I thought you’d left off those tom-boy ways.’

‘She wants the refinement which good society gives in several ways,’ said Mrs. Gibson, returning to the attack on poor Molly. ‘She’s very apt to come upstairs two steps at a time.’

‘Only two, Molly!’ said Cynthia. ‘Why, to-day I found I could manage four of these broad shallow steps.’

‘My dear child, what are you saying?’

‘Only confessing that I, like Molly, want the refinements which good society gives; therefore, please do let us go to Miss Brownings’ this evening. I will pledge myself for Molly that she shan’t sit in a cherry-tree; and Molly shall see that I don’t go upstairs in an unladylike way. I will go upstairs as meekly as if I were a come-out young lady, and had been to the Easter ball.’

So it was agreed that they should go. If Mr. Osborne Hamley had been named as one of the probable visitors, there would have been none of this difficulty about the affair.

But though he was not there his brother Roger was. Molly saw him in a minute when she entered the little drawing-room; but Cynthia did not.

‘And see, my dears,’ said Miss Phoebe Browning, turning them round to the side where Roger stood waiting for his turn of speaking to Molly, ‘we’ve got a gentleman for you after all! Wasn’t it fortunate?—just as sister said that you might find it dull—you, Cynthia, she meant, because you know you come from France; and then, just as if he had been sent from heaven, Mr. Roger came in to call; and I won’t say we laid violent hands on him, because he was too good for that; but really we should have been near it, if he had not stayed of his own accord.’

The moment Roger had done his cordial greeting to Molly, he asked her to introduce him to Cynthia.

‘I want to know her—your new sister,’ he added, with the kind smile Molly remembered so well since the very first day she had seen it directed towards her, as she sat crying under the weeping ash. Cynthia was standing a little behind Molly when Roger asked for this introduction. She was generally dressed with careless grace. Molly, who was delicate neatness itself, used sometimes to wonder how Cynthia’s tumbled gowns, tossed away so untidily, had the art of looking so well, and falling in such graceful folds. For instance, the pale lilac muslin gown she wore this evening had been worn many times before, and had looked unfit to wear again till Cynthia put it on. Then the limpness became softness, and the very creases took the lines of beauty. Molly, in a daintily clean pink muslin, did not look half so elegantly dressed as Cynthia. The grave eyes that the latter raised when she had to be presented to Roger had a sort of childlike innocence and wonder about them, which did not quite belong to Cynthia’s character. She put on her armour of magic that evening—involuntarily, as she always did; but, on the other side, she could not help trying her power on strangers. Molly had always felt that she should have a right to a good long talk with Roger when she next saw him; and that he would tell her, or she should gather from him, all the details she so longed to hear about the Squire—about the Hall—about Osborne—about himself He was just as cordial and friendly as ever with her. If Cynthia had not been there, all would have gone on as she had anticipated; but of all the victims to Cynthia’s charms he fell most prone and abject. Molly saw it all, as she was sitting next to Miss Phoebe at the tea-table, acting right-hand, and passing cake, cream, sugar, with such busy assiduity that every one besides herself thought that her mind, as well as her hands, was fully occupied. She tried to talk to the two shy girls, as in virtue of her two years’ seniority she thought herself bound to do; and the consequence was, she went upstairs with the twain clinging to her arms, and willing to swear an eternal friendship. Nothing would satisfy them but that she must sit between them at vingt-un; and they were so desirous of her advice in the important point of fixing the price of the counters that she could not ever have joined in the animated conversation going on between Roger and Cynthia. Or, rather, it would be more correct to say that Roger was talking in a most animated manner to Cynthia, whose sweet eyes were fixed upon his face with a look of great interest in all he was saying, while it was only now and then she made her low replies. Molly caught a few words occasionally in intervals of business.

‘At my uncle’s, we always give a silver threepence for three dozen. You know what a silver threepence is, don’t you, dear Miss Gibson?’

‘The three classes are published in the Senate House at nine o’clock on the Friday morning, and you can’t imagine’—

‘I think it will be thought rather shabby to play at anything less than sixpence. That gentleman’ (this in a whisper) ‘is at Cambridge, and you know they always play very high there, and sometimes ruin themselves, don’t they, dear Miss Gibson?’

‘Oh, on this occasion the Master of Arts who precedes the candidates for honours when they go into the Senate House is called the Father of the College to which he belongs. I think I mentioned that before, didn’t I?’

So Cynthia was hearing all about Cambridge, and the very examination about which Molly had felt such keen interest, without having ever been able to have her questions answered by a competent person; and Roger, to whom she had always looked as the final and most satisfactory answerer, was telling the whole of what she wanted to know, and she could not listen. It took all her patience to make up little packets of counters, and settle, as the arbiter of the game, whether it would be better for the round or the oblong counters to be reckoned as six. And when all was done, and every one sat in their places round the table, Roger and Cynthia had to be called twice before they came. They stood up, it is true, at the first sound of their names; but they did not move—Roger went on talking, Cynthia listening, till the second call; when they hurried to the table and tried to appear, all on a sudden, quite interested in the great questions of the game—namely, the price of three dozen counters, and whether, all things considered, it would be better to call the round counters or the oblong half a dozen each. Miss Browning, drumming the pack of cards on the table, and quite ready to begin dealing, decided the matter by saying, ‘Rounds are sixes, and three dozen counters cost sixpence. Pay up, if you please, and let us begin at once.’ Cynthia sat between Roger and William Osborne, the young schoolboy, who bitterly resented on this occasion his sisters’ habit of calling him ‘Willie,’ as he thought it was this boyish sobriquet which prevented Cynthia from attending as much to him as to Mr. Roger Hamley; he also was charmed by the charmer, who found leisure to give him one or two of her sweet smiles. On his return home to his grandmamma‘s, he gave out one or two very decided and rather original opinions, quite opposed—as was natural—to his sisters’. One was—

‘That, after all, a senior wrangler was no great shakes. Any man might be one if he liked, but there were a lot of fellows that he knew who would be very sorry to go in for anything so slow.’

Molly thought the game never would end. She had no particular turn for gambling in her; and whatever her card might be, she regularly put on two counters, indifferent as to whether she won or lost. Cynthia, on the contrary, staked high, and was at one time very rich, but ended by being in debt to Molly something like six shillings. She had forgotten her purse, she said, and was obliged to borrow from the more provident Molly, who was aware that the round game of which Miss Browning had spoken to her was likely to require money. If it was not a very merry affair for all the individuals concerned, it was a very noisy one on the whole. Molly thought it was going to last till midnight; but punctually, as the clock struck nine, the little maidservant staggered in under the weight of a tray loaded with sandwiches, cakes, and jelly. This brought on a general move; and Roger, who appeared to have been on the watch for something of the kind, came and took a chair by Molly.

‘I am so glad to see you again—it seems such a long time since Christmas,’ said he, dropping his voice, and not alluding more exactly to the day when she had left the Hall.

‘It is a long time,’ she replied; ‘we are close to Easter now. I have so wanted to tell you how glad I was to hear about your honours at Cambridge. I once thought of sending you a message through your brother, but then I thought it might be making too much fuss, because I know nothing of mathematics, or of the value of a senior wranglership; and you were sure to have so many congratulations from people who did know.’

‘I missed yours though, Molly,’ said he, kindly. ‘But I felt sure you were glad for me.’

‘Glad and proud too,’ said she. ‘I should so like to hear something more about it. I heard you telling Cynthia———’

‘Yes. What a charming person she is! I should think you must be happier than we expected long ago.’

‘But tell me something about the senior wranglership, please,’ said Molly.

‘It’s a long story, and I ought to be helping the Miss Brownings to hand sandwiches—besides, you wouldn’t find it very interesting, it’s so full of technical details.’

‘Cynthia looked very much interested,’ said Molly.

‘Well! then I refer you to her, for I must go now. I can’t for shame go on sitting here, and letting those good ladies have all the trouble. But I shall come and call on Mrs. Gibson soon. Are you walking home to-night?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Molly, eagerly foreseeing what was to come.

‘Then I shall walk home with you. I left my horse at the “Angel,” and that’s half-way. I suppose old Betty will allow me to accompany you and your sister? You used to describe her as something of a dragon.’

‘Betty has left us,’ said Molly., sadly. ‘She’s gone to live at a place at Ashcombe.’

He made a face of dismay, and then went off to his duties. The short conversation had been very pleasant, and his manner had had just the brotherly kindness of old times; but it was not quite the manner he had to Cynthia; and Molly half thought she would have preferred the latter. He was now hovering about Cynthia, who had declined the offer of refreshments from Willie Osborne. Roger was tempting her, and with playful entreaties urging her to take something from him. Every word they said could be heard by the whole room; yet every word was said, on Roger’s part at least, as if he could not have spoken it in that peculiar manner to any one else. At length, and rather more because she was weary of being entreated than because it was his wish, Cynthia took a macaroon, and Roger seemed as happy as though she had crowned him with flowers. The whole affair was as trifling and commonplace as could be in itself; hardly worth noticing; and yet Molly did notice it, and felt uneasy; she could not tell why. As it turned out, it was a rainy night, and Mrs. Gibson sent a fly for the two girls instead of old Betty’s substitute. Both Cynthia and Molly thought of the possibility of their taking the two Osborne girls back to their grandmother’s, and so saving them a wet walk; but Cynthia got the start in speaking about it; and the thanks and the implied praise for thoughtfulness were hers.

When they got home Mr. and Mrs. Gibson were sitting in the drawing-room, quite ready to be amused by any details of the evening.

Cynthia began—

‘Oh! it wasn’t very entertaining. One didn’t expect that,’ and she yawned wearily.

‘Who were there?’ asked Mr. Gibson. ‘Quite a young party—wasn’t it?’

‘They’d only asked Lizzie and Fanny Osborne, and their brother; but Mr. Roger Hamley had ridden over and called on Miss Brownings, and they had kept him to tea. No one else.’

‘Roger Hamley there!’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘He’s come home then. I must make time to ride over and see him.’

‘You’d much better ask him here,’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘Suppose you invite him and his brother to dine here on Friday, my dear. It would be a very pretty attention, I think.’

‘My dear! these young Cambridge men have a very good taste in wine, and don’t spare it. My cellar won’t stand many of their attacks.’

‘I didn’t think you were so inhospitable, Mr. Gibson.’

‘I’m not inhospitable, I’m sure. If you’ll put “bitter beer” in the corner of your notes of invitation, just as the smart people put “quadrilles” as a sign of the entertainment offered, we’ll have Osborne and Roger to dinner any day you like. And what did you think of my favourite, Cynthia? You hadn’t seen him before, I think?’

‘Oh! he’s nothing like so handsome as his brother; nor so polished; nor so easy to talk to. He entertained me for more than an hour with a long account of some examination or other; but there’s something one likes about him,’

‘Well—and Molly,’ said Mrs. Gibson, who piqued herself on being an impartial stepmother, and who always tried hard to make Molly talk as much as Cynthia—‘what sort of an evening have you had?’

‘Very pleasant, thank you.’ Her heart a little belied her as she said this. She had not cared for the round game; and she would have cared for Roger’s conversation. She had had what she was indifferent to, and not had what she would have liked.

‘We’ve had our unexpected visitor, too,’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘Just after dinner who should come in but Mr. Preston. I fancy he’s having more of the management of the Hollingford property than formerly. Sheepshanks is getting an old man. And if so, I suspect we shall see a good deal of Preston. He’s “no blate,”^bg as they used to say in Scotland, and made himself quite at home to-night. If I’d asked him to stay, or, indeed, if I’d done anything but yawn, he’d have been here now. But I defy any man to stay when I have a fit of yawning.’

‘Do you like Mr. Preston, papa?’ asked Molly.

‘About as much as I do half the men I meet. He talks well, and has seen a good deal. I know very little of him, though, except that he’s my lord’s steward, which is a guarantee for a good deal.’

‘Lady Harriet spoke pretty strongly against him that day I was with her at the Manor House.’

‘Lady Harriet’s always full of fancies: she likes persons to-day, and dislikes them to-morrow,’ said Mrs. Gibson, who was touched on her sore point whenever Molly quoted Lady Harriet, or said anything to imply ever so transitory an intimacy with her.

‘You must know a good deal about Mr. Preston, my dear. I suppose you saw a good deal of him at Ashcombe?’

Mrs. Gibson coloured, and looked at Cynthia before she replied. Cynthia’s face was set into a determination not to speak, however much she might be referred to.

‘Yes; we saw a good deal of him—at one time, I mean. He’s changeable, I think. But he always sent us game, and sometimes fruit. There were some stories against him, but I never believed them.’

‘What kind of stories?’ said Mr. Gibson, quickly.

‘Oh, vague stories, you know: scandal, I dare say. No one ever believed them. He could be so agreeable if he chose; and my lord, who is so very particular, would never have kept him as agent if they were true; not that I ever knew what they were, for I consider all scandal as abominable gossip.’

‘I’m very glad I yawned in his face,’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘I hope he’ll take the hint.’

‘If it was one of your giant-gapes, papa, I should call it more than a hint,’ said Molly. ‘And if you want a yawning chorus the next time he comes, I’ll join in; won’t you, Cynthia?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied the latter, shortly, as she lighted her bed-candle. The two girls had usually some nightly conversation in one or other of their bedrooms; but to-night Cynthia said something or other about being terribly tired, and hastily shut her door.

The very next day, Roger came to pay his promised call. Molly was out in the garden with Williams, planning the arrangement of some new flower-beds, and deep in her employment of placing pegs upon the lawn to mark out the different situations, when, standing up to mark the effect, her eye was caught by the figure of a gentleman, sitting with his back to the light, leaning forwards and talking, or listening, eagerly. Molly knew the shape of the head perfectly, and hastily began to put off her brown-holland gardening apron, emptying the pockets as she spoke to Williams.

‘You can finish it now, I think,’ said she. ‘You know about the bright-coloured flowers being against the privet-hedge, and where the new rose-bed is to be?’

‘I can’t justly say as I do,’ said he. ‘Mebbe, you’ll just go o’er it all once again, Miss Molly. I’m not so young as I oncst was, and my head is not so clear nowadays, and I’d be loth to make mistakes when you’re so set upon your plans.’

Molly gave up her impulse in a moment. She saw that the old gardener was really perplexed, yet that he was as anxious as he could be to do his best. So she went over the ground again, pegging and explaining till the wrinkled brow was smooth again, and he kept saying, ‘I see, miss. All right, Miss Molly, I’se getten it in my head as clear as patch-work now.’

So she could leave him, and go in. But just as she was close to the garden door, Roger came out. It really was for once a case of virtue its own reward, for it was far pleasanter to her to have him in a tête-à-tête, however short, than in the restraint of Mrs. Gibson’s and Cynthia’s presence.

‘I only just found out where you were, Molly. Mrs. Gibson said you had gone out, but she didn’t know where; and it was the greatest chance that I turned round and saw you.’

‘I saw you some time ago, but I couldn’t leave Williams. I think he was unusually slow to-day; and he seemed as if he couldn’t understand my plans for the new flower-beds.’

‘Is that the paper you’ve got in your hand? Let me look at it, will you? Ah, I see! you’ve borrowed some of your ideas from our garden at home, haven’t you? This bed of scarlet geraniums, with the border of young oaks, pegged down! That was a fancy of my dear mother’s.’

They were both silent for a minute or two. Then Molly said—

‘How is the squire? I’ve never seen him since.’

‘No, he told me how much he wanted to see you, but he couldn’t make up his mind to come and call. I suppose it would never do now for you to come and stay at the Hall, would it? It would give my father so much pleasure: he looks upon you as a daughter, and I’m sure both Osborne and I shall always consider you are like a sister to us, after all my mother’s love for you, and your tender care of her at last. But I suppose it wouldn’t do.’

‘No! certainly not,’ said Molly, hastily.

‘I fancy if you could come it would put us a little to rights. You know, as I think I once told you, Osborne has behaved differently to what I should have done, though not wrongly—only what I call an error of judgment. But my father, I’m sure, has taken up some notion of——never mind; only the end of it is that he holds Osborne still in tacit disgrace, and is miserable himself all the time. Osborne, too, is sore and unhappy, and estranged from my father. It is just what my mother would have put right very soon, and perhaps you could have done it—unconsciously, I mean—for this wretched mystery that Osborne preserves about his affairs is at the root of it all. But there’s no use talking about it; I don’t know why I began.’ Then, with a wrench, changing the subject, while Molly still thought of what he had been telling her, he broke out—‘I can’t tell you how much I like Miss Kirkpatrick, Molly. It must be a great pleasure to you, having such a companion!’

‘Yes,’ said Molly, half smiling. ‘I’m very fond of her; and I think I like her better every day I know her. But how quickly you have found out her virtues!’

‘I didn’t say “virtues,” did I?’ asked he, reddening, but putting the question in all good faith. ‘Yet I don’t think one could be deceived in that face. And Mrs. Gibson appears to be a very friendly person—she has asked Osborne and me to dine here on Friday.’

‘Bitter beer’ came into Molly’s mind; but what she said was, ‘And are you coming?’

‘Certainly, I am, unless my father wants me; and I’ve given Mrs.

Gibson a conditional promise for Osborne, too. So I shall see you all very soon again. But I must go now. I have to keep an appointment seven miles from here in half an hour’s time. Good luck to your flower-garden, Molly.’

CHAPTER 22

The Old Squire’s Troubles

Affairs were going on worse at the Hall than Roger had liked to tell. Moreover, very much of the discomfort there arose from ‘mere manner,’ as people express it, which is always indescribable and indefinable. Quiet and passive as Mrs. Hamley had always been in appearance, she was the ruling spirit of the house as long as she lived. The directions to the servants, down to the most minute particulars, came from her sitting-room, or from the sofa on which she lay. Her children always knew where to find her; and to find her, was to find love and sympathy. Her husband, who was often restless and angry from one cause or another, always came to her to be smoothed down and put right. He was conscious of her pleasant influence over him, and became at peace with himself when in her presence; just as a child is at ease when with some one who is both firm and gentle. But the keystone of the family arch was gone, and the stones of which it was composed began to fall apart. It is always sad when a sorrow of this kind seems to injure the character of the mourning survivors. Yet, perhaps, this injury may be only temporary or superficial; the judgments so constantly passed upon the way people bear the loss of those whom they have deeply loved, appear to be even more cruel, and wrongly meted out, than human judgments generally are. To careless observers, for instance, it would seem as though the squire was rendered more capricious and exacting, more passionate and authoritative, by his wife’s death. The truth was, that it occurred at a time when many things came to harass him, and some to bitterly disappoint him; and she was no longer there to whom he used to carry his sore heart for the gentle balm of her sweet words, if the sore heart ached and smarted intensely; and often, when he saw how his violent conduct affected others, he could have cried out for their pity, instead of their anger and resentment: ‘Have mercy upon me, for I am very miserable.’^bh How often have such dumb thoughts gone up from the hearts of those who have taken hold of their sorrow by the wrong end, as prayers against sin! And when the squire saw that his servants were learning to dread him, and his first-born to avoid him, he did not blame them. He knew he was becoming a domestic tyrant; it seemed as if all circumstances conspired against him, and as if he was too weak to struggle with them; else, why did everything indoors and out of doors go so wrong just now, when all he could have done, had things been prosperous, was to have submitted, in very imperfect patience, to the loss of his wife. But just when he needed ready-money to pacify Osborne’s creditors, the harvest had turned out remarkably plentiful, and the price of corn had sunk down to a level it had not touched for years. The squire had insured his life at the time of his marriage for a pretty large sum. It was to be a provision for his wife, if she had survived him, and for their younger children. Roger was the only representative of these interests now; but the squire was unwilling to lose the insurance by ceasing to pay the annual sum. He would not, if he could, have sold any part of the estate which he inherited from his father; and, besides, it was strictly entailed. He had sometimes thought how wise a step it would have been could he have sold a portion of it, and with the purchase-money have drained and reclaimed the remainder; and at length, learning from some neighbour that Government would make certain advances for drainage, &c., at a very low rate of interest, on condition that the work was done, and the money repaid within a given time, his wife had urged him to take advantage of the proffered loan. But now that she was no longer there to encourage him, and take an interest in the progress of the work, he grew indifferent to it himself, and cared no more to go out on his stout roan cob, and sit square on his seat, watching the labourers on the marshy land all overgrown with rushes; speaking to them from time to time in their own strong nervous country dialect; but the interest to Government had to be paid all the same, whether the men worked well or ill. Then the roof of the Hall let in the melted snow-water this winter; and, on examination, it turned out that a new roof was absolutely required. The men who had come about the advances made to Osborne by the London money-lender, had spoken disparagingly of the timber on the estate—‘Very fine trees—sound, perhaps, too, fifty years ago, but gone to rot now; had wanted lopping and clearing. Was there no woodranger or forester? They were nothing like the value young Mr. Hamley had represented them to be of.’ The remarks had come round to the squire’s ears. He had loved the trees he had played under as a boy as if they were living creatures; that was on the romantic side of his nature. Merely looking at them as representing so many pounds sterling, he had esteemed them highly, and had had, until now, no opinion of another by which to correct his own judgment. So these words of the valuers cut him sharp, although he affected to disbelieve them, and tried to persuade himself that he did so. But, after all, these cares and disappointments did not touch the root of his deep resentment against Osborne. There is nothing like wounded affection for giving poignancy to anger. And the squire believed that Osborne and his advisers had been making calculations based upon his own death. He hated the idea so much—it made him so miserable—that he would not face it, and define it, and meet it with full inquiry and investigation. He chose rather to cherish the morbid fancy that he was useless in this world—born under an unlucky star—that all things went badly under his management. But he did not become humble in consequence. He put his misfortunes down to the score of Fate—not to his own; and he imagined that Osborne saw his failures, and that his first-born grudged him his natural term of life. All these fancies would have been set to rights could he have talked them over with his wife; or even had he been accustomed to mingle much in the society of those whom he esteemed his equals; but, as has been stated, he was inferior in education to those who should have been his mates; and perhaps the jealousy and mauvaise honte^bi that this inferiority had called out long ago, extended itself in some measure to the feelings he entertained towards his sons—less to Roger than to Osborne, though the former was turning out by far the most distinguished man. But Roger was practical; interested in all out-of-door things, and he enjoyed the details, homely enough, which his father sometimes gave him of the everyday occurrences which the latter had noticed in the woods and the fields. Osborne, on the contrary, was what is commonly called ‘fine’; delicate almost to effeminacy in dress and in manner; careful in small observances. All this his father had been rather proud of in the days when he looked forward to a brilliant career at Cambridge for his son; he had at that time regarded Osborne’s fastidiousness and elegance as another stepping-stone to the high and prosperous marriage which was to restore the ancient fortunes of the Hamley family. But now that Osborne had barely obtained his degree; that all the boastings of his father had proved vain; that the fastidiousness had led to unexpected expenses (to attribute the most innocent cause to Osborne’s debts), the poor young man’s ways and manners became a subject of irritation to his father. Osborne was still occupied with his books and his writings when he was at home; and this mode of passing the greater part of the day gave him but few subjectsin common with his father when they did meet at meal-times, or in the evenings. Perhaps if Osborne had been able to have more out-of-door amusements it would have been better; but he was short-sighted, and cared little for the carefully observant pursuits of his brother; he knew but few young men of his own standing in the county; his hunting even, of which he was passionately fond, had been curtailed this season, as his father had disposed of one of the two hunters he had been hitherto allowed. The whole stable establishment had been reduced; perhaps because it was the economy which told most on the enjoyment of both the squire and Osborne, and which, therefore, the former took a savage pleasure in enforcing. The old carriage—a heavy family coach bought in the days of comparative prosperity—was no longer needed after madam’s death, and fell to pieces in the cobwebbed seclusion of the coach-house. The best of the two carriage-horses was taken for a gig which the squire now set up; saying many a time to all who might care to listen to him that it was the first time for generations that the Hamleys of Hamley had not been able to keep their own coach. The other carriage-horse was turned out to grass; being too old for regular work. Conqueror used to come whinnying up to the park palings whenever he saw the squire, who had always a piece of bread, or some sugar, or an apple for the old favourite and would make many a complaining speech to the dumb animal, telling him of the change of times since both were in their prime. It had never been the squire’s custom to encourage his boys to invite their friends to the Hall. Perhaps this, too, was owing to his mauvaise honte, and also to an exaggerated consciousness of the deficiencies of his establishment as compared with what he imagined these lads were accustomed to at home. He explained this once or twice to Osborne and Roger when they were at Rugby.

‘You see, all you public schoolboys have a kind of freemasonry of your own, and outsiders are looked on by you much as I look on rabbits and all that isn’t game. Aye, you may laugh, but it is so; and your friends will throw their eyes askance at me, and never think on my pedigree, which would beat theirs all to shivers, I’ll be bound. No; I’ll have no one here at the Hall who will look down on a Hamley of Hamley, even if he only knows how to make a cross instead of write his name.’

Then, of course, they must not visit at houses to whose sons the squire could not or would not return a like hospitality. On all these points Mrs. Hamley had used her utmost influence without avail; his prejudices were immovable. As regarded his position as head of the oldest family in three counties, his pride was invincible; as regarded himself personally—ill at ease in the society of his equals, deficient in manners, and in education—his morbid sensitiveness was too sore and too self-conscious to be called humility.

Take one instance from among many similar scenes of the state of feeling between the squire and his eldest son, which, if it could not be called active discord, showed at least passive estrangement.

It took place on an evening in the March succeeding Mrs. Hamley’s death. Roger was at Cambridge. Osborne had also been from home, and he had not volunteered any information as to his absence. The squire believed that Osborne had been either in Cambridge with his brother, or in London; he would have liked to hear where his son had been, what he had been doing, and whom he had seen, precisely as pieces of news, and as some diversion from the domestic worries and cares which were pressing him hard; but he was too proud to ask any questions, and Osborne had not given him any details of his journey. This silence had aggravated the squire’s internal dissatisfaction, and he came home to dinner weary and sore-hearted a day or two after Osborne’s return. It was just six o’clock, and he went hastily into his own little business-room on the ground-floor, and, after washing his hands, came into the drawing-room feeling as if he were very late, but the room was empty. He glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece, as he tried to warm his hands at the fire. The fire had been neglected, and had gone out during the day; it was now piled up with half-dried wood, which sputtered and smoked instead of doing its duty in blazing and warming the room, through which the keen wind was cutting its way in all directions. The clock had stopped, no one had remembered to wind it up, but by the squire’s watch it was already past dinner-time. The old butler put his head into the room, but, seeing the squire alone, he was about to draw it back, and wait for Mr. Osborne, before announcing dinner. He had hoped to do this unperceived, but the squire caught him in the act.

‘Why isn’t dinner ready?’ he called out sharply. ‘It’s ten minutes past six. And pray, why are you using this wood? It’s impossible to get oneself warm by such a fire as this.’

‘I believe, sir, that Thomas ^________ ’

‘Don’t talk to me of Thomas. Send dinner in directly.’

About five minutes elapsed, spent by the hungry squire in all sorts of impatient ways—attacking Thomas, who came in to look after the fire; knocking the logs about, scattering out sparks, but considerably lessening the chances of warmth; touching up the candles, which appeared to him to give light unusually insufficient for the large cold room. While he was doing this, Osborne came in dressed in full evening dress. He always moved slowly; and this, to begin with, irritated the squire. Then an uncomfortable consciousness of a black coat, drab trousers, checked cotton cravat, and splashed boots, forced itself upon him as he saw Osborne’s point-device costume. He chose to consider it affectation and finery in Osborne, and was on the point of bursting out with some remark, when the butler, who had watched Osborne downstairs before making the announcement, came in to say dinner was ready.

‘It surely isn’t six o’clock?’ said Osborne, pulling out his dainty little watch. He was scarcely more unaware than it of the storm that was brewing.

‘Six o’clock! It’s more than a quarter past,’ growled out his father.

‘I fancy your watch must be wrong, sir. I set mine by the Horse Guards^bj only two days ago.’

Now, impugning that old steady, turnip-shaped watch of the squire’s was one of the insults which, as it could not reasonably be resented, was not to be forgiven. That watch had been given him by his father when watches were watches long ago. It had given the law to house-clocks, stable-clocks, kitchen-clocks—nay, even to Hamley Church dock in its day; and was it now, in its respectable old age, to be looked down upon by a little whipper-snapper of a French watch which could go into a man’s waistcoat pocket, instead of having to be extricated, with due efforts, like a respectable watch of size and position, from a fob in the waist-band. No, not if the whipper-snapper were backed by all the Horse Guards that ever were, with the Life Guards to boot. Poor Osborne might have known better than to cast this slur on his father’s flesh and blood; for so dear did he hold his watch!

‘My watch is like myself,’ said the squire, girning,’^bk as the Scotch say—‘plain, but steady-going. At any rate, it gives the law in my house. The King may go by the Horse Guards’ if he likes.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Osborne, really anxious to keep the peace, ‘I went by my watch, which is certainly right by London time; and I’d no idea you were waiting for me; otherwise I could have dressed much quicker.’

‘I should think so,’ said the squire, looking sarcastically at his son’s attire.‘When I was a young man I should have been ashamed to have spent as much time at my looking-glass as if I’d been a girl. I could make myself as smart as anyone when I was going to a dance, or to a party where I was likely to meet pretty girls; but I should have laughed myself to scorn if I’d stood fiddle-faddling at a glass, smirking at my own likeness, all for my own pleasure.’

Osborne reddened, and was on the point of letting fly some caustic remark on his father’s dress at the present moment; but he contented himself with saying, in a low voice—

‘My mother always expected us all to dress for dinner. I got into the habit of doing it to please her, and I keep it up now.’ Indeed he had a certain kind of feeling of loyalty to her memory in keeping up all the little domestic habits and customs she had instituted or preferred. But the contrast which the squire thought was implied by Osborne’s remark, put him beside himself.

‘And I, too, try to attend to her wishes. I do; and in more important things. I did when she was alive; and I do so now.’

‘I never said you did not,’ said Osborne, astonished at his father’s passionate words and manner.

‘Yes, you did, sir. You meant it. I could see by your looks. I saw you look at my morning coat. At any rate, I never neglected any wish of hers in her lifetime. If she’d wished me to go to school again and learn my A, B, C, I would. By——I would; and I wouldn’t have gone playing, and lounging away my time, for fear of vexing and disappointing her. Yet some folks older than schoolboys——

The squire choked here; but though the words would not come his passion did not diminish. ‘I’ll not have you casting up your mother’s wishes to me, sir. You, who went near to break her heart at last!’

Osborne was strongly tempted to get up and leave the room. Perhaps it would have been better if he had; it might then have brought about an explanation, and a reconciliation between father and son. But he thought he did well in sitting still and appearing to take no notice. This indifference to what he was saying appeared to annoy the squire still more, and he kept on grumbling and talking to himself till Osborne, unable to bear it any longer, said, very quietly, but very bitterly—

‘I am only a cause of irritation to you, and home is no longer home to me, but a place in which I am to be controlled in trifles, and scolded about trifles as if I were a child. Put me in a way of making a living for myself—that much your oldest son has a right to ask of you—I will then leave this house, and you shall be no longer vexed by my dress, or my want of punctuality’

‘You make your request pretty much as another son did long ago: “Give me the portion that falleth to me.”^bl But I don’t think what he did with his money is much encouragement for me to——’ Then the thought of how little he could give his son his ‘portion,’ or any part of it, stopped the squire.

Osborne took up the speech.

‘I’m as ready as any man to earn my living; only the preparation for any profession will cost money, and money I haven’t got.’

‘No more have I,’ said the squire shortly.

‘What is to be done then?’ said Osborne, only half believing his father’s words.

‘Why, you must learn to stop at home, and not take expensive journeys; and you must reduce your tailor’s bill. I don’t ask you to help me in the management of the land—you’re far too fine a gentleman for that; but if you can’t earn money, at least you needn’t spend it.’

‘I’ve told you I’m willing enough to earn money,’ cried Osborne, passionately at last. ‘But how am I to do it? You really are very unreasonable, sir.’

‘Am I?’ said the squire—cooling in manner, though not in temper, as Osborne grew warm. ‘But I don’t set up for being reasonable; men who have to pay away money that they haven’t got for their extravagant sons aren’t likely to be reasonable. There’s two things you’ve gone and done which put me beside myself, when I think of them; you’ve turned out next door to a dunce at college, when your poor mother thought so much of you—and when you might have pleased and gratified her so if you chose—and, well! I won’t say what the other thing is.’

‘Tell me, sir,’ said Osborne, almost breathless with the idea that his father had discovered his secret marriage; but the father was thinking of the money-lenders, who were calculating how soon Osborne would come into the estate.

‘No!’ said the squire. ‘I know what I know; and I’m not going to tell you how I know it. Only, I’ll just say this—your friends no more know a piece of good timber when they see it than you or I know how you could earn five pounds if it was to keep you from starving. Now, there’s Roger—we none of us made an ado about him; but he’ll have his fellowship now, I’ll warrant him, and be a bishop, or a chancellor, or something, before we’ve found out he’s clever—we’ve been so much taken up thinking about you. I don’t know what’s come over me to speak of “we”—“we” in this way,’ said he, suddenly dropping his voice—a change of voice as sad as sad could be. ‘I ought to say “I”; it will be “I” for evermore in this world.’

He got up and left the room in quick haste, knocking over his chair, and not stopping to pick it up. Osborne, who was sitting and shading his eyes with his hand, as he had been doing for some time, looked up at the noise, and then rose as quickly and hurried after his father, only in time to hear the study-door locked on the inside the moment he reached it.

Osborne returned into the dining-room chagrined and sorrowful. But he was always sensitive to any omission of the usual observances, which might excite remark; and even with his heavy heart he was careful to pick up the fallen chair, and restore it to its place near the bottom of the table; and afterwards so to disturb the dishes as to make it appear that they had been touched, before ringing for Robinson. When the latter came in, followed by Thomas, Osborne thought it necessary to say to him that his father was not well, and had gone into the study; and that he himself wanted no dessert, but would have a cup of coffee in the drawing-room. The old butler sent Thomas out of the room, and came up confidentially to Osborne.

‘I thought master wasn’t justly himself, Mr. Osborne, before dinner. And, therefore, I made excuses for him—I did. He spoke to Thomas about the fire, sir, which is a thing I could in nowise put up with, unless by reason of sickness, which I am always ready to make allowances for.’

‘Why shouldn’t my father speak to Thomas?’ said Osborne. ‘But, perhaps, he spoke angrily, I dare say; for I’m sure he’s not well.’

‘No, Mr. Osborne, it wasn’t that. I myself am given to anger; and I’m blessed with as good health as any man in my years. Besides, anger is a good thing for Thomas. He needs a deal of it. But it should come from the right quarter—and that is me, myself, Mr. Osborne. I know my place, and I know my rights and duties as well as any butler that lives. And it’s my duty to scold Thomas, and not master’s. Master ought to have said, “Robinson! you must speak to Thomas about letting out the fire,” and I’d ha’ given it him well—as I shall do now, for that matter. But as I said before, I make excuses for master, as being in mental distress and bodily ill-health; so I’ve brought myself round not to give warning, as I should ha’ done, for certain, under happier circumstances.’

‘Really, Robinson, I think it’s all great nonsense,’ said Osborne, weary of the long story the butler had told him, and to which he had not half attended. ‘What in the world does it signify whether my father speaks to you or to Thomas? Bring me coffee in the drawing-room, and don’t trouble your head any more about scolding Thomas.’

Robinson went away offended at his grievance being called nonsense. He kept muttering to himself in the intervals of scolding Thomas, and saying—‘Things is a deal changed since poor missis went. I don’t wonder master feels it, for I’m sure I do. She was a lady who had always a becoming respect for a butler’s position, and could have understood how he might be hurt in his mind. She’d never ha’ called his delicacies of feelings nonsense—not she; no more would Mr. Roger. He’s a merry young gentleman, and overfond of bringing dirty, slimy creatures into the house; but he’s always a kind word for a man who is hurt in his mind. He’d cheer up the squire, and keep him from getting so cross and wilful. I wish Mr. Roger was here, I do.’

The poor squire, shut up with his grief and his ill-temper as well, in the dingy, dreary study in which he daily spent more and more of his indoors life, turned over his cares and troubles till he was as bewildered with the process as a squirrel must be in going round in a cage. He had out day-books and ledgers, and was calculating up back-rents ; and every time the sum-totals came to different amounts. He could have cried like a child over his sums; he was worn out and weary, angry and disappointed. He closed his books at last with a bang.

‘I’m getting old,’ he said, ‘and my head’s less clear than it used to be, I think sorrow for her has dazed me. I never was much to boast on; but she thought a deal of me—bless her. She’d never let me call myself stupid; but, for all that, I am stupid. Osborne ought to help me. He’s had money enough spent on his learning; but, instead, he comes down dressed like a popinjay, and never troubles his head to think how I’m to pay his debts. I wish I’d told him to earn his living as a dancing-master,’ said the squire, with a sad smile at his own wit. ‘He’s dressed for all the world like one. And how he’s spent the money no one knows! Perhaps Roger will turn up some day with a heap of creditors at his heels. No, he won’t—not Roger; he may be slow, but he’s steady, is old Roger. I wish he was here. He’s not the eldest son, but he’d take an interest in the estate; and he’d do up these weary accounts for me. I wish Roger was here!’

CHAPTER 23

Osborne Hamley Reviews His Position

Osborne had his solitary cup of coffee in the drawing-room. He was very unhappy too, after his fashion. He stood on the hearth-rug pondering over his situation. He was not exactly aware how hardly his father was pressed for ready-money; the squire had never spoken to him on the subject without being angry; and many of his loose, contradictory statements—all of which, however contradictory they might appear, had their basis in truth—were set down by his son to the exaggeration of passion. But it was uncomfortable enough to a young man of Osborne’s age to feel himself continually hampered for want of a five-pound note. The principal supplies for the liberal—almost luxurious—table at the Hall, came off the estate; so that there was no appearance of poverty as far as the household went; and as long as Osborne was content at home, he had everything he could wish for; but he had a wife elsewhere—he wanted to see her continually—and that necessitated journeys. She, poor thing! had to be supported—where was the money for the journeys and for Aimee’s modest wants to come from? That was the puzzle in Osborne’s mind just now. While he had been at college his allowance—heir of the Hamleys—had been three hundred, while Roger had to be content with a hundred less. The payment of these annual sums had given the squire a good deal of trouble; but he thought of it as a merely temporary inconvenience; perhaps unreasonably thought so. Osborne was to do great things; take high honours, get a fellowship, marry a long-descended heiress, live in some of the many uninhabited rooms at the Hall, and help the squire in the management of the estate that would some time be his. Roger was to be a clergyman; steady, slow Roger was just fitted for that, and when he declined entering the Church, preferring a life of more activity and adventure, Roger was to be anything; he was useful and practical, and fit for all the employments from which Osborne was shut out by his fastidiousness, and his (pseudo) genius; so it was well he was an eldest son, for he would never have done to struggle through the world; and as for his settling down to a profession, it would be like cutting blocks with a razor! And now here was Osborne, living at home, but longing to be elsewhere; his allowance stopped in reality; indeed, the punctual payment of it during the last year or two had been owing to his mother’s exertions; but nothing had been said about its present cessation by either father or son; money matters were too sore a subject between them. Every now and then the squire threw him a ten-pound note or so; but the sort of suppressed growl with which it was given, and the entire uncertainty as to when he might receive such gifts, rendered any calculation based upon their receipt exceedingly vague and uncertain.

‘What in the world can I do to secure an income?’ thought Osborne, as he stood on the hearth-rug, his back to the blazing fire, his cup of coffee sent up in the rare old china that had belonged to the Hall for generations; his dress finished, as dress of Osborne’s could hardly fail to be. One could hardly have thought that this elegant young man, standing there in the midst of comfort that verged on luxury, should have been turning over that one great problem in his mind; but so it was. ‘What can I do to be sure of a present income? Things cannot go on as they are. I should need support for two or three years, even if I entered myself at the Temple, or Lincoln’s Inn.^bm It would be impossible to live on my pay in the army; besides, I should hate that profession. In fact, there are evils attending all professions—I couldn’t bring myself to become a member of any I’ve ever heard of. Perhaps I’m more fitted to take orders^bn than anything else; but to be compelled to write weekly sermons whether one had anything to say or not, and, probably, doomed only to associate with people below one in refinement and education! Yet poor Aimee must have money. I can’t bear to compare our dinners here, overloaded with joints and game and sweets, as Dawson will persist in sending them up, with Aimée’s two little mutton-chops. Yet what would my father say if he knew I’d married a Frenchwoman? In his present mood he’d disinherit me, if that is possible; and he’d speak about her in a way I couldn’t stand. A Roman Catholic, too! Well, I don’t repent it. I’d do it again. Only if my mother had been in good health—if she could have heard my story, and known Aimée! As it is, I must keep it secret; but where to get money? Where to get money?’

Then he bethought him of his poems—would they sell, and bring him in money? In spite of Milton, he thought they might; and he went to fetch his MSS. out of his room. He sat down near the fire, trying to study them with a critical eye, to represent public opinion as far as he could. He had changed his style since the Mrs. Hemans days. He was essentially imitative in his poetic faculty; and of late he had followed the lead of a popular writer of sonnets. He turned his poems over: they were almost equivalent to an autobiographical passage in his life. Arranging them in their order, they came as follows:—

‘To Aimee, Walking with a Little Child.’

‘To Aimee, Singing at her Work.’

‘To Aimée, Turning away from me while I told my Love.’

‘Aimée’s Confession.’

‘Aimée in Despair.’

‘The Foreign Land in which my Aimée dwells.’

‘The Wedding Ring.’

‘The Wife.’

When he came to this last sonnet he put down his bundle of papers and began to think. ‘The Wife.’ Yes, and a French wife; and a Roman Catholic wife—and a wife who might be said to have been in service! And his father’s hatred of the French, both collectively and individually—collectively, as tumultuous brutal ruffians, who murdered their king, and committed all kinds of bloody atrocities—individually, as represented by ‘Boney,’^bo and the various caricatures of ‘Johnny Crapaud’^bp that had been in full circulation about five-and-twenty years before this time, when the squire had been young and capable of receiving impressions. As for the form of religion in which Mrs. Osborne Hamley had been brought up, it is enough to say that Catholic emancipation had begun to be talked about by some politicians,¹ and that the sullen roar of the majority of Englishmen at the bare idea of it was surging in the distance with ominous threatenings; the very mention of such a measure before the squire was, as Osborne well knew, like shaking a red flag before a bull.

And then he considered that if Aimée had had the unspeakable, the incomparable blessing of being born of English parents, in the very heart of England—Warwickshire, for instance—and had never heard of priests, or mass, or confession, or the Pope, or Guy Fawkes, but had been born, baptized, and bred in the Church of England, without having ever seen the outside of a dissenting meeting-house, or a papist chapel—even with all these advantages, her having been a (what was the equivalent for ‘bonne’ in English? nursery-governess was a term hardly invented) nursery-maid, with wages paid down once a quarter, liable to be dismissed at a month’s warning, and having her tea and sugar doled out to her, would be a shock to his father’s old ancestral pride that he would hardly ever get over.

‘If he saw her!’ thought Osborne. ‘If he could but see her!’ But if the squire were to see Aimee, he would also hear her speak her pretty broken English—precious to her husband, as it was in it that she had confessed brokenly with her English tongue, that she loved him soundly with her French heart—and Squire Hamley piqued himself on being a good hater of the French. ‘She would make such a loving, sweet, docile little daughter to my father—she would go as near as any one could towards filling up the blank void in this house, if he could but have her; but he won’t; he never would; and he shan’t have the opportunity of scouting her.Yet if I called her “Lucy” in these sonnets; and if they made a great effect—were praised in Blackwood and the Quarterly^bq—and all the world was agog to find out the author; and I told him my secret—I could if I were successful—I think then he would ask who Lucy was, and I could tell him all then. If—how I hate “ifs.” “If me no ifs.” My life has been based on “whens”; and first they have turned to “ifs,” and then they have vanished away. It was “when Osborne gets honours,” and then “if Osborne,” and then a failure altogether. I said to Aimée, “when my mother sees you,” and now it is “if my father saw her,” with a very faint prospect of its ever coming to pass.’ So he let the evening hours flow on and disappear in reveries like these; winding up with a sudden determination to try the fate of his poems with a publisher, with the direct expectation of getting money for them, and an ulterior fancy that, if successful, they might work wonders with his father.

When Roger came home, Osborne did not let a day pass before telling his brother of his plans. He never did conceal anything long from Roger; the feminine part of his character made him always desirous of a confidant, and as sweet sympathy as he could extract. But Roger’s opinion had no effect on Osborne’s actions; and Roger knew this full well. So when Osborne began with—‘I want your advice on a plan I have got in my head,’ Roger replied: ‘Some one told me that the Duke of Wellington’s maxim was never to give advice unless he could enforce its being carried into effect; now I can’t do that; and you know, old boy, you don’t follow out my advice when you’ve got it.’

‘Not always, I know. Not when it does not agree with my own opinion. You’re thinking about this concealment of my marriage; but you’re not up in all the circumstances. You know how fully I meant to have done it, if there had not been that row about my debts; and then my mother’s illness and death. And now you’ve no conception how my father is changed—how irritable he has become! Wait till you’ve been at home a week! Robinson, Morgan—it’s the same with them all; but worst of all with me.’

‘Poor fellow!’ said Roger; ‘I thought he looked terribly changed: shrunken, and his ruddiness of complexion altered.’

‘Why, he hardly takes half the exercise he used to do, so it’s no wonder. He has turned away all the men off the new works, which used to be such an interest to him; and because the roan cob stumbled with him one day, and nearly threw him, he won’t ride it; and yet he won’t sell it and buy another, which would be the sensible plan; so there are two old horses eating their heads off, while he is constantly talking about money and expense. And that brings me to what I was going to say. I’m desperately hard up for money, and so I’ve been collecting my poems—weeding them well, you know—going over them quite critically, in fact; and I want to know if you think Deighton would publish them. You’ve a name in Cambridge, you know; and I dare say he would look at them if you offered them to him.’

‘I can but try,’ said Roger; ‘but I’m afraid you won’t get much by them.’

‘I don’t expect much. I’m a new man, and must make my name. I should be content with a hundred. If I’d a hundred pounds I’d set myself to do something. I might keep myself and Aimée by my writings while I studied for the bar; or, if the worst came to the worst, a hundred pounds would take us to Australia.’

‘Australia! Why, Osborne, what could you do there? And leave my father! I hope you’ll never get your hundred pounds, if that’s the use you’re to make of it! Why, you’d break the squire’s heart.’

‘It might have done once,’ said Osborne, gloomily, ‘but it would not now. He looks at me askance, and shies away from conversation with me. Let me alone for noticing and feeling this kind of thing. It’s this very susceptibility to outward things that gives me what faculty I have; and it seems to me as if my bread, and my wife’s too, were to depend upon it.You’ll soon see for yourself the terms which I am on with my father!’

Roger did soon see. His father had slipped into a habit of silence at meal-times—a habit which Osborne, who was troubled and anxious enough for his own part, had not striven to break. Father and son sat together, and exchanged all the necessary speeches connected with the occasion civilly enough; but it was a relief to them when their intercourse was over, and they separated—the father to brood over his sorrow and his disappointment, which were real and deep enough, and the injury he had received from his boy, which was exaggerated in his mind by his ignorance of the actual steps Osborne had taken to raise money. If the money-lenders had calculated the chances of his father’s life or death in making their bargain, Osborne himself had thought only of how soon and how easily he could get the money requisite for clearing him from all imperious claims at Cambridge, and for enabling him to follow Aimée to her home in Alsace, and for the subsequent marriage. As yet, Roger had never seen his brother’s wife; indeed, he had only been taken into Osborne’s full confidence after all was decided in which his advice could have been useful. And now, in the enforced separation, Osborne’s whole thought, both the poetical and practical sides of his mind, ran upon the little wife who was passing her lonely days in farmhouse lodgings, wondering when her bridegroom husband would come to her next. With such an engrossing subject, it was, perhaps, no wonder that he unconsciously neglected his father; but it was none the less sad at the time, and to be regretted in its consequences.

‘I may come in and have a pipe with you sir, mayn’t I?’ said Roger, that first evening, pushing gently against the study-door, which his father held only half open.

‘You’ll not like it,’ said the squire, still holding the door against him, but speaking in a relenting tone. ‘The tobacco I use isn’t what young men like. Better go and have a cigar with Osborne.’

‘No. I want to sit with you, and I can stand pretty strong tobacco.’

Roger pushed in, the resistance slowly giving way before him.

‘It will make your clothes smell.You’ll have to borrow Osborne’s scents to sweeten yourself,’ said the squire, grimly, at the same time pushing a short smart amber-mouthed pipe to his son.

‘No; I’ll have a churchwarden.^br Why, father, do you think I’m a baby to put up with a doll’s head like this?’ looking at the carving upon it.

The squire was pleased in his heart, though he did not choose to show it. He only said,‘Osborne brought it me when he came back from Germany. That’s three years ago.’ And then for some time they smoked in silence. But the voluntary companionship of his son was very soothing to the squire, though not a word might be said.

The next speech he made showed the direction of his thoughts; indeed his words were always a transparent medium through which the current might be seen.

‘A deal of a man’s life comes and goes in three years—I’ve found that out;’ and he puffed away at his pipe again. While Roger was turning over in his mind what answer to make to this truism, the squire again stopped his smoking and spoke. ‘I remember when there was all that fuss about the Prince of Wales being made regent, I read somewhere—I dare say it was in a newspaper—that kings and their heirs-apparent were always on bad terms.

‘Osborne was quite a little chap then: he used to go out riding with me on White Surrey; you won’t remember the pony we called White Surrey’

‘I remember it; but I thought it a tall horse in those days.’

‘Ah! that was because you were such a small lad, you know I had seven horses in the stable then—not counting the farm-horses. I don’t recollect having a care then, except—she was always delicate, you know. But what a beautiful boy Osborne was! He was always dressed in black velvet—it was a foppery, but it wasn’t my doing, and it was all right, I’m sure. He’s a handsome fellow now, but the sunshine has gone out of his face.’

‘He’s a good deal troubled about this money, and the anxiety he has given you,’ said Roger, rather taking his brother’s feelings for granted.

‘Not he,’ said the squire, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and hitting the bowl so sharply against the hob that it broke in pieces. ‘There! But never mind! I say, not he, Roger! He’s none troubled about the money. It’s easy getting money from Jews if you’re the eldest son, and the heir. They just ask, “How old is your father, and has he had a stroke, or a fit?” and it’s settled out of hand, and then they come prowling about a place, and running down the timber and land—Don’t let us speak of him; it’s no good, Roger. He and I are out of tune, and it seems to me as if only God Almighty could put us to rights. It’s thinking of how he grieved her at last that makes me so bitter with him. And yet there’s a deal of good in him! and he’s so quick and clever, if only he’d give his mind to things. Now, you were always slow, Roger—all your masters used to say so.’

Roger laughed a little—

‘Yes ; I’d many a nickname at school for my slowness,’ said he.

‘Never mind!’ said the squire, consolingly. ‘I’m sure I don’t. If you were a clever fellow like Osborne yonder, you’d be all for caring for books and writing, and you’d perhaps find it as dull as he does to keep company with a bumpkin-squire Jones like me. Yet, I dare say, they think a deal of you at Cambridge,’ said he, after a pause, ‘since you’ve got this fine wranglership; I’d nearly forgotten that—the news came at such a miserable time.’

‘Well, yes! They’re always proud of the senior wrangler of the year up at Cambridge. Next year I must abdicate.’

The squire sat and gazed into the embers, still holding his useless pipe-stem. At last he said, in a low voice, as if scarcely aware he had got a listener,—‘I used to write to her when she was away in London, and tell her the home news. But no letter will reach her now! Nothing reaches her!’

Roger started up.

‘Where’s the tobacco-box, father! Let me fill you another pipe!’ and when he had done so, he stooped over his father and stroked his cheek. The squire shook his head.

‘You’ve only just come home, lad. You don’t know me, as I am nowadays! Ask Robinson—I won’t have you asking Osborne, he ought to keep it to himself—but any of the servants will tell you I’m not like the same man for getting into passions with them. I used to be reckoned a good master, but that is past now! Osborne was once a little boy, and she was once alive—and I was once a good master—a good master—yes! It’s all past now.’

He took up his pipe, and began to smoke afresh, and Roger, after a silence of some minutes, began a long story about some Cambridge man’s misadventure on the hunting-field, telling it with such humour that the squire was beguiled into hearty laughing. When they rose to go to bed his father said to Roger—

‘Well, we’ve had a pleasant evening—at least, I have. But perhaps you haven’t; for I’m but poor company now, I know.’

‘I don’t know when I’ve passed a happier evening, father,’ said Roger. And he spoke truly, though he did not trouble himself to find out the cause of his happiness.

CHAPTER 24

Mrs. Gibson’s Little Dinner

All this had taken place before Roger’s first meeting with Molly and Cynthia at Miss Brownings’; and the little dinner on the Friday at Mr. Gibson’s, which followed in due sequence.

Mrs. Gibson intended the Hamleys to find this dinner pleasant; and they did. Mr. Gibson was fond of the two young men, both for their parents’ sake and their own, for he had known them since boyhood; and to those whom he liked Mr. Gibson could be remarkably agreeable. Mrs. Gibson really gave them a welcome—and cordiality in a hostess is a very becoming mantle for any other deficiencies there may be. Cynthia and Molly looked their best, which was all the duty Mrs. Gibson absolutely required of them, as she was willing enough to take her full share in the conversation. Osborne fell to her lot, of course, and for some time he and she prattled on with all the ease of manner and common-placeness of meaning which go far to make the ‘art of polite conversation.’ Roger, who ought to have made himself agreeable to one or the other of the young ladies, was exceedingly interested in what Mr. Gibson was telling him of a paper on comparative osteology¹ in some foreign journal of science, which Lord Hollingford was in the habit of forwarding to his friend the country surgeon. Yet every now and then while he listened he caught his attention wandering to the face of Cynthia, who was placed between his brother and Mr. Gibson. She was not particularly occupied with attending to anything that was going on; her eyelids were carelessly dropped, as she crumbled her bread on the tablecloth, and her beautiful long eyelashes were seen on the clear tint of her oval cheek. She was thinking of something else; Molly was trying to understand with all her might. Suddenly Cynthia looked up, and caught Roger’s gaze of intent admiration too fully for her to be unaware that he was staring at her. She coloured a little; but, after the first moment of rosy confusion at his evident admiration of her, she flew to the attack, diverting his confusion at thus being caught, to the defence of himself from her accusation.

‘It is quite true!’ she said to him. ‘I was not attending: you see I don’t know even the ABC of science. But, please, don’t look so severely at me, even if I am a dunce!’

‘I didn’t know—I didn’t mean to look severely, I am sure,’ replied he, not knowing well what to say.

‘Cynthia is not a dunce either,’ said Mrs. Gibson, afraid lest her daughter’s opinion of herself might be taken seriously. ‘But I have always observed that some people have a talent for one thing and some for another. Now Cynthia’s talents are not for science and the severer studies. Do you remember, love, what trouble I had to teach you the use of the globes?’

‘Yes; and I don’t know longitude from latitude now; and I’m always puzzled as to which is perpendicular and which is horizontal.’

‘Yet, I do assure you,’ her mother continued, rather addressing herself to Osborne, ‘that her memory for poetry is prodigious. I have heard her repeat the “Prisoner of Chillon”^bs from beginning to end.’

‘It would be rather a bore to have to hear her, I think,’ said Mr. Gibson, smiling at Cynthia, who gave him back one of her bright looks of mutual understanding.

‘Ah, Mr. Gibson, I have found out before now that you have no soul for poetry; and Molly there is your own child. She reads such deep books—all about facts and figures: she’ll be quite a blue-stocking^bt by and by.’

‘Mamma,’ said Molly, reddening, ‘you think it was a deep book because there were the shapes of the different cells of bees in it! but it was not at all deep. It was very interesting.’

‘Never mind, Molly,’ said Osborne. ‘I stand up for blue-stockings.’

‘And I object to the distinction implied in what you say,’ said Roger. ‘It was not deep, ergo,^bu it was very interesting. Now, a book may be both deep and interesting.’

‘Oh, if you are going to chop logic and use Latin words, I think it is time for us to leave the room,’ said Mrs. Gibson.

‘Don’t let us run away as if we were beaten, mamma,’ said Cynthia. ‘Though it may be logic, I, for one, can understand what Mr. Roger Hamley said just now; and I read some of Molly’s book; and whether it was deep or not, I found it very interesting—more so than I should think the “Prisoner of Chillon” nowadays. I’ve displaced the Prisoner to make room for Johnnie Gilpin^bv as my favourite poem.’

‘How could you talk such nonsense, Cynthia!’ said Mrs. Gibson, as the girls followed her upstairs. ‘You know you are not a dunce. It is all very well not to be a blue-stocking; because gentle-people don’t like that kind of woman; but running yourself down, and contradicting all I said about your liking for Byron, and poets and poetry—to Osborne Hamley of all men, too!’

Mrs. Gibson spoke quite crossly for her.

‘But, mamma,’ Cynthia replied,‘I am either a dunce, or I am not. If I am, I did right to own it; if I am not, he’s a dunce if he doesn’t find out I was joking.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs. Gibson, a little puzzled by this speech, and wanting some elucidatory addition.

‘Only that if he’s a dunce his opinion of me is worth nothing. So, any way, it doesn’t signify’

‘You really bewilder me with your nonsense, child. Molly is worth twenty of you.’

‘I quite agree with you, mamma,’ said Cynthia, turning round to take Molly’s hand.

‘Yes; but she ought not to be,’ said Mrs. Gibson, still irritated. ‘Think of the advantages you’ve had.’

‘I’m afraid I had rather be a dunce than a blue-stocking,’ said Molly; for the term had a little annoyed her, and the annoyance was rankling still.

‘Hush; here they are coming; I hear the dining-room door! I never meant you were a blue-stocking, dear, so don’t look vexed.—Cynthia, my love, where did you get those lovely flowers—anemones, are they? They suit your complexion so exactly.’

‘Come Molly, don’t look so grave and thoughtful,’ exclaimed Cynthia. ‘Don’t you perceive mamma wants us to be smiling and amiable?’

Mr. Gibson had had to go out to his evening round; and the young men were all too glad to come up into the pretty drawingroom;the bright little wood fire; the comfortable easy chairs which, with so small a party, might be drawn round the hearth; the good-natured hostess; the pretty, agreeable girls. Roger sauntered up to the corner where Cynthia was standing, playing with a hand-screen.

‘There is a charity ball in Hollingford soon, isn’t there?’ asked he.

‘Yes; on Easter Tuesday,’ she replied.

‘Are you going? I suppose you are?’

‘Yes; mamma is going to take Molly and me.’

‘You will enjoy it very much—going together?’

For the first time during this little conversation she glanced up at him—real honest pleasure shining out of her eyes.

‘Yes; going together will make the enjoyment of the thing. It would be dull without her.’

‘You are great friends, then?’ he asked.

‘I never thought I should like any one so much,—any girl I mean.’

She put in the final reservation in all simplicity of heart; and in all simplicity did he understand it. He came ever so little nearer, and dropped his voice a little.

‘I was so anxious to know. I am so glad. I have often wondered how you two were getting on.’

‘Have you?’ said she, looking up again. ‘At Cambridge? You must be very fond of Molly!’

‘Yes, I am. She was with us so long; and at such a time! I look upon her almost as a sister.’

‘And she is very fond of all of you. I seem to know you all from hearing her talk about you so much.’

‘All of you!’ said she, laying an emphasis on ‘all’ to show that it included the dead as well as the living. Roger was silent for a minute or two.

‘I didn’t know you, even by hearsay. So you mustn’t wonder that I was a little afraid. But as soon as I saw you I knew how it must be; and it was such a relief!’

‘Cynthia,’ said Mrs. Gibson, who thought that the younger son had had quite his share of low, confidential conversation, ‘come here, and sing that little French ballad to Mr. Osborne Hamley.’

‘Which do you mean, mamma? “Tu t’en repentiras, Colin”?’

‘Yes; such a pretty, playful little warning to young men,’ said Mrs. Gibson, smiling up at Osborne. ‘The refrain is—Tu t‘en repentiras, Colin,

Tu t’en repentiras,Car si tu prends une femme, Colin,

Tu t’en repentiras.^bw

The advice may apply very well when there is a French wife in the case; but not, I am sure, to an Englishman who is thinking of an English wife.’

This choice of a song was exceedingly mal-àpropos,^bx had Mrs. Gibson but known it. Osborne and Roger, knowing that the wife of the former was a Frenchwoman, and conscious of each other’s knowledge, felt doubly awkward; while Molly was as much confused as though she herself were secretly married. However, Cynthia carolled the saucy ditty out, and her mother smiled at it, in total ignorance of any application it might have. Osborne had instinctively gone to stand behind Cynthia, as she sat at the piano, so as to be ready to turn over the leaves of her music if she required it. He kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed on her fingers; his countenance clouded with gravity at all the merry quips which she so playfully sang. Roger looked grave as well, but was much more at his ease than his brother; indeed, he was half-amused by the awkwardness of the situation. He caught Molly’s troubled eyes and heightened colour, and he saw that she was feeling this contretemps^by more seriously than she needed to do. He moved to a seat by her, and half whispered, ‘Too late a warning, is it not?’

Molly looked up at him as he leant towards her, and replied in the same tone—‘Oh, I am so sorry!’

‘You need not be. He won’t mind it long; and a man must take the consequences when he puts himself in a false position.’

Molly could not tell what to reply to this, so she hung her head and kept silence. Yet she could see that Roger did not change his attitude or remove his hand from the back of his chair, and, impelled by curiosity to find out the cause of his stillness, she looked up at him at length, and saw his gaze fixed on the two who were near the piano. Osborne was saying something eagerly to Cynthia, whose grave eyes were upturned to him with soft intentness of expression, and her pretty mouth half-open, with a sort of impatience for him to cease speaking, that she might reply.

‘They are talking about France,’ said Roger, in answer to Molly’s unspoken question. ‘Osborne knows it well, and Miss Kirkpatrick has been at school there, you know. It sounds very interesting; shall we go nearer and hear what they are saying?’

It was all very well to ask this civilly, but Molly thought it would have been better to wait for her answer. Instead of waiting, however, Roger went to the piano, and, leaning on it, appeared to join in the light merry talk, while he feasted his eyes as much as he dared by looking at Cynthia. Molly suddenly felt as if she could scarcely keep from crying—a minute ago he had been so near to her, and talking so pleasantly and confidentially; and now he almost seemed as if he had forgotten her existence. She thought that all this was wrong; and she exaggerated its wrongness to herself; ‘mean,’ and ‘envious of Cynthia,’ and ‘ill-natured,’ and ‘selfish,’ were the terms she kept applying to herself; but it did no good, she was just as naughty at the last as at the first.

Mrs. Gibson broke into the state of things which Molly thought was to endure for ever. Her work had been intricate up to this time, and had required a great deal of counting; so she had had no time to attend to her duties, one of which she always took to be to show herself to the world as an impartial stepmother. Cynthia had played and sung, and now she must give Molly her turn of exhibition. Cynthia’s singing and playing was light and graceful, but anything but correct; but she herself was so charming, that it was only fanatics for music who cared for false chords and omitted notes. Molly, on the contrary, had an excellent ear, if she had ever been well taught; and both from inclination and conscientious perseverance of disposition, she would go over an incorrect passage for twenty times. But she was very shy of playing in company; and when forced to do it, she went through her performance heavily, and hated her handiwork more than any one.

‘Now, you must play a little, Molly,’ said Mrs. Gibson; ‘play us that beautiful piece of Kalkbrenner’s, my dear.’

Molly looked up at her stepmother with beseeching eyes; but it only brought out another form of request, still more like a command.

‘Go at once, my dear. You may not play it quite rightly; and I know you are very nervous; but you’re quite amongst friends.’

So there was a disturbance made in the little group at the piano, and Molly sat down to her martyrdom.

‘Please, go away!’ said she to Osborne, who was standing behind her ready to turn over. ‘I can quite well do it for myself And oh! if you would but talk!’

Osborne remained where he was in spite of her appeal, and gave her what little approval she got; for Mrs. Gibson, exhausted by her previous labour of counting her stitches, fell asleep in her comfortable sofa-corner near the fire; and Roger, who began at first to talk a little in compliance with Molly’s request, found his téte-à-téte with Cynthia so agreeable, that Molly lost her place several times in trying to catch a sudden glimpse of Cynthia sitting at her work, and Roger by her, intent on catching her low replies to what he was saying.

‘There, now I’ve done!’ said Molly, standing up quickly as soon as she had finished the eighteen dreary pages; ‘and I think I will never sit down to play again!’

Osborne laughed at her vehemence. Cynthia began to take some part in what was being said, and thus made the conversation general. Mrs. Gibson wakened up gracefully, as was her way of doing all things, and slid into the subjects they were talking about so easily that she almost succeeded in making them believe she had never been asleep at all.

CHAPTER 25

Hollingford in a Bustle

All Hollingford felt as if there was a great deal to be done before Easter this year. There was Easter proper, which always required new clothing of some kind, for fear of certain consequences from little birds, who were supposed to resent the impiety of those who do not wear some new article of dress on Easter-day.^bz And most ladies considered it wiser that the little birds should see the new article for themselves, and not have to take it upon trust, as they would have to do if it were merely a pocket-handkerchief, or a petticoat, or any article of under-clothing. So piety demanded a new bonnet, or a new gown; and was barely satisfied with an Easter pair of gloves. Miss Rose was generally very busy just before Easter in Hollingford. Then this year there was the charity ball. Ashcombe, Hollingford, and Coreham were three neighbouring towns, of about the same number of population, lying at the three equidistant corners of a triangle. In imitation of greater cities with their festivals, these three towns had agreed to have an annual ball for the benefit of the county hospital to be held in turn at each place; and Hollingford was to be the place this year.

It was a fine time for hospitality, and every house of any pretension was as full as it could hold, and flys were engaged long months before.

If Mrs. Gibson could have asked Osborne, or, in default, Roger Hamley, to go to the ball with them and to sleep at their house,—or if, indeed, she could have picked up any stray scion of a ‘county family’ to whom such an offer would have been a convenience, she would have restored her own dressing-room to its former use as the spare-room, with pleasure. But she did not think it was worth her while to put herself out for any humdrum and ill-dressed women who had been her former acquaintances at Ashcombe. For Mr. Preston it might have been worth while to give up her room, considering him in the light of a handsome and prosperous young man, and a good dancer besides. But there were more lights in which he was to be viewed. Mr. Gibson, who really wanted to return the hospitality shown to him by Mr. Preston at the time of his marriage, had yet an instinctive distaste to the man, which no wish of freeing himself from obligation, nor even the more worthy feeling of hospitality, could overcome. Mrs. Gibson had some old grudges of her own against him, but she was not one to retain angry feelings, or be very active in her retaliation; she was afraid of Mr. Preston, and admired him at the same time. It was awkward too—so she said—to go into a ball-room without any gentleman at all, and Mr. Gibson was so uncertain^! On the whole—partly for this last given reason, and partly because conciliation was the best policy, Mrs. Gibson was slightly in favour of inviting Mr. Preston to be their guest. But as soon as Cynthia heard the question discussed—or rather, as soon as she heard it discussed in Mr. Gibson’s absence, she said that if Mr. Preston came to be their visitor on the occasion, she for one would not go to the ball at all. She did not speak with vehemence or in anger; but with such quiet resolution that Molly looked up in surprise. She saw that Cynthia was keeping her eyes fixed on her work, and that she had no intention of meeting any one’s gaze, or giving any further explanation. Mrs. Gibson, too, looked perplexed, and once or twice seemed on the point of asking some question; but she was not angry as Molly had fully expected. She watched Cynthia furtively and in silence for a minute or two, and then said that, after all, she could not conveniently give up her dressing-room; and, altogether, they had better say no more about it. So no stranger was invited to stay at Mr. Gibson’s at the time of the ball; but Mrs. Gibson openly spoke of her regret at the unavoidable in-hospitality, and hoped that they might be able to build an addition to their house before the next triennial Hollingford ball.

Another cause of unusual bustle at Hollingford this Easter was the expected return of the family to the Towers, after their unusually long absence. Mr. Sheepshanks might be seen trotting up and down on his stout old cob, speaking to attentive masons, plasterers, and glaziers about putting everything—on the outside at least—about the cottages belonging to ‘my lord,’ in perfect repair. Lord Cumnor owned the greater part of the town; and those who lived under other landlords, or in houses of their own, were stirred up by the dread of contrast to do up their dwellings. So the ladders of whitewashers and painters were sadly in the way of the ladies tripping daintily along to make their purchases, and holding their gowns up in a bunch behind, after a fashion quite gone out in these days. The housekeeper and steward from the Towers might also be seen coming in to give orders at the various shops; and stopping here and there at those kept by favourites to avail themselves of the eagerly-tendered refreshments.

Lady Harriet came to call on her old governess the day after the arrival of the family at the Towers. Molly and Cynthia were out walking when she came—doing some errands for Mrs. Gibson, who had a secret idea that Lady Harriet would call at the particular time she did, and had a not uncommon wish to talk to her ladyship without the corrective presence of any member of her own family.

Mrs. Gibson did not give Molly the message of remembrance that Lady Harriet had left for her; but she imparted various pieces of news relating to the Towers with great animation and interest. The Duchess of Menteith and her daughter Lady Alice, were coming to the Towers; would be there the day of the ball; would come to the ball; and the Menteith diamonds were famous. That was piece of news the first. The second was that ever so many gentlemen were coming to the Towers—some English, some French. This piece of news would have come first in order of importance had there been much probability of their being dancing men, and, as such, possible partners at the coming ball. But Lady Harriet had spoken of them as Lord Hollingford’s friends, useless, scientific men in all probability. Then, finally, Mrs. Gibson was to go to the Towers next day to lunch; Lady Cumnor had written a little note by Lady Harriet to beg her to come; if Mrs. Gibson could manage to find her way to the Towers, one of the carriages in use should bring her back to her own home in the course of the afternoon.

‘The dear countess!’ said Mrs. Gibson, with soft affection. It was a soliloquy, uttered after a minute’s pause, at the end of all this information.

And all the rest of that day her conversation had an aristocratic perfume hanging about it. One of the few books she had brought with her into Mr. Gibson’s house was bound in pink,^ca and in it she studied, ‘Menteith, Duke of, Adolphus George,’ &c., &c., till she was fully up in all the duchess’s connexions, and probable interests. Mr. Gibson made his mouth up into a droll whistle when he came home at night, and found himself in a Towers’ atmosphere. Molly saw the shade of annoyance through the drollery; she was beginning to see it oftener than she liked, not that she reasoned upon it, or that she consciously traced the annoyance to its source; but she could not help feeling uneasy in herself when she knew that her father was in the least put out.

Of course a fly was ordered for Mrs. Gibson. In the early afternoon she came home. If she had been disappointed in her interview with the countess she never told her woe, nor revealed the fact that when she first arrived at the Towers she had to wait for an hour in Lady Cumnor’s morning-room, uncheered by any companionship save that of her old friend, Mrs. Bradley, till suddenly, Lady Harriet coming in, she exclaimed,‘Why, Clare! you dear woman! are you here all alone? Does mamma know?’ And, after a little more affectionate conversation, she rushed to find her ladyship, who was perfectly aware of the fact, but too deep in giving the duchess the benefit of her wisdom and experience in trousseaux to be at all mindful of the length of time Mrs. Gibson had been passing in patient solitude. At lunch Mrs. Gibson was secretly hurt by my lord’s supposing it to be her dinner, and calling out his urgent hospitality from the very bottom of the table, giving as a reason for it, that she must remember it was her dinner. In vain she piped out in her soft, high voice, ‘Oh, my lord! I never eat meat in the middle of the day; I can hardly eat anything at lunch.’ Her voice was lost, and the duchess might go away with the idea that the Hollingford doctor’s wife dined early; that is to say, if her grace ever condescended to have any idea on the subject at all; which presupposes that she was cognizant of the fact of there being a doctor at Hollingford, and that he had a wife, and that his wife was the pretty, faded, elegant-looking woman, sending away her plate of untasted food—food which she longed to eat, for she was really desperately hungry after her drive and her solitude.

And then after lunch there did come a tete-d-tete with Lady Cumnor, which was conducted after this wise:—

‘Well, Clare! I am really glad to see you. I once thought I should never get back to the Towers, but here I am! There was such a clever man at Bath—a Doctor Snape—he cured me at last—quite set me up. I really think if ever I am ill again I shall send for him: it is such a thing to find a really clever medical man. Oh, by the way, I always forget you’ve married Mr. Gibson—of course he is very clever, and all that. (The carriage to the door in ten minutes, Brown, and desire Bradley to bring my things down.) What was I asking you. Oh! how do you get on with the stepdaughter? She seemed to me to be a young lady with a pretty stubborn will of her own. I put a letter for the post down somewhere, and I cannot think where; do help me look for it, there’s a good woman. Just run to my room, and see if Brown can find it, for it is of great consequence.’

Off went Mrs. Gibson, rather unwillingly; for there were several things she wanted to speak about, and she had not heard half of what she had expected to learn of the family gossip. But all chance was gone; for, when she came back from her fruitless errand, Lady Cumnor and the duchess were in full talk, the former with the missing letter in her hand, which she was using something like a baton to enforce her words.

‘Every iota from Paris! Every i-o-ta!’

Lady Cumnor was too much of a Lady not to apologize for useless trouble, but they were nearly the last words she spoke to Mrs. Gibson, for she had to go out and drive with the duchess; and the brougham to take ‘Clare’ (as she persisted in calling Mrs. Gibson) back to Hollingford followed the carriage to the door. Lady Harriet came away from her entourage of young men and young ladies, all prepared for some walking expedition, to wish Mrs. Gibson good-bye.

‘We shall see you at the ball,’ she said. ‘You’ll be there with your two girls, of course, and I must have a little talk with you there; with all these visitors in the house, it has been impossible to see anything of you to-day, you know.’

Such were the facts, but rose-colour was the medium through which they were seen by Mrs. Gibson’s household listeners on her return.

‘There are many visitors staying at the Towers—oh, yes! a great many: the duchess and Lady Alice, and Mr. and Mrs. Grey, and Lord Albert Monson and his sister, and my old friend Captain James of the Blues—many more, in fact. But of course I preferred going to Lady Cumnor’s own room, where I could see her and Lady Harriet quietly, and where we were not disturbed by the bustle downstairs. Of course we were obliged to go down to lunch, and then I saw my old friends, and renewed pleasant acquaintances. But I really could hardly get any connected conversation with any one. Lord Cumnor seemed so delighted to see me there again: though there were six or seven between us, he was always interrupting with some civil or kind speech especially addressed to me. And after lunch Lady Cumnor asked me all sorts of questions about my new life with as much interest as if I had been her daughter. To be sure, when the duchess came in we had to leave off, and talk about the trousseaux she is preparing for Lady Alice. Lady Harriet made such a point of our meeting at the ball; she is such a good, affectionate creature, is Lady Harriet!’

This last was said in a tone of meditative appreciation.

The afternoon of the day on which the ball was to take place, a servant rode over from Hamley with two lovely nosegays, ‘with the Mr. Hamleys’ compliments to Miss Gibson and Miss Kirkpatrick.’ Cynthia was the first to receive them. She came dancing into the drawing-room, flourishing the flowers about in either hand, and danced up to Molly, who was trying to settle to her reading, by way of helping on the time till the evening came.

‘Look, Molly, look! Here are bouquets for us! Long life to the givers!’

‘Who are they from?’ asked Molly, taking hold of one, and examining it with tender delight at its beauty.

‘Who from? Why, the two paragons of Hamleys, to be sure! Isn’t it a pretty attention?’

‘How kind of them!’ said Molly.

‘I’m sure it is Osborne who thought of it. He has been so much abroad, where it is such a common compliment to send bouquets to young ladies.’

‘I don’t see why you should think it is Osborne’s thought!’ said Molly, reddening a little. ‘Mr. Roger Hamley used to gather nosegays constantly for his mother, and sometimes for me.’

‘Well, never mind whose thought it was, or who gathered them; we’ve got the flowers, and that’s enough. Molly, I’m sure these red flowers will just match your coral necklace and bracelets,’ said Cynthia, pulling out some camellias, then a rare kind of flower.

‘Oh, please, don’t!’ exclaimed Molly. ‘Don’t you see how carefully the colours are arranged—they have taken such pains; please, don’t.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Cynthia, continuing to pull them out; ‘see, here are quite enough. I’ll make you a little coronet of them—sewn on black velvet, which will never be seen—just as they do in France!’

‘Oh, I am so sorry! It is quite spoilt,’ said Molly.

‘Never mind! I’ll take this spoilt bouquet; I can make it up again just as prettily as ever; and you shall have this, which has never been touched.’ Cynthia went on arranging the crimson buds and flowers to her taste. Molly said nothing, but kept watching Cynthia’s nimble fingers tying up the wreath.

‘There,’ said Cynthia, at last, ‘when that is sewn on black velvet, to keep the flowers from dying, you’ll see how pretty it will look. And there are enough red flowers in this untouched nosegay to carry out the idea!’

‘Thank you’ (very slowly). ‘But shan’t you mind having only the wrecks of the other?’

‘Not I; red flowers would not go with my pink dress.’

‘But—daresay they arranged each nosegay so carefully!’

‘Perhaps they did. But I never would allow sentiment to interfere with my choice of colours; and pink does tie one down. Now you, in white muslin, just tipped with crimson like a daisy, may wear anything.’

Cynthia took the utmost pains in dressing Molly, leaving the clever housemaid to her mother’s exclusive service. Mrs. Gibson was more anxious about her attire than was either of the girls; it had given her occasion for deep thought and not a few sighs. Her deliberation had ended in her wearing her pearl-grey satin wedding-gown, with a profusion of lace, and white and coloured lilacs. Cynthia was the one who took the affair most lightly. Molly looked upon the ceremony of dressing for a first ball as rather a serious ceremony ; certainly as an anxious proceeding. Cynthia was almost as anxious as herself; only Molly wanted her appearance to be correct and unnoticed; and Cynthia was desirous of setting off Molly’s rather peculiar charms—her cream-coloured skin, her profusion of curly black hair, her beautiful long-shaped eyes, with their shy, loving expression. Cynthia took up so much time in dressing Molly to her mind, that she herself had to perform her toilette in a hurry. Molly, ready dressed, sat on a low chair in Cynthia’s room, watching the pretty creature’s rapid movements, as she stood in her petticoat before the glass doing up her hair, with quick certainty of effect. At length, Molly heaved a long sigh, and said—

‘I should like to be pretty!’

‘Why, Molly,’ said Cynthia, turning round with an exclamation on the tip of her tongue; but when she caught the innocent, wistful look on Molly’s face, she instinctively checked what she was going to say, and, half-smiling to her own reflection in the glass, she said—‘The French girls would tell you, to believe that you were pretty would make you so.’

Molly paused before replying—

‘I suppose they would mean that if you knew you were pretty, you would never think about your looks; you would be so certain of being liked, and that it is caring——

‘Listen! that’s eight o’clock striking. Don’t trouble yourself with trying to interpret a French girl’s meaning, but help me on with my frock, there’s a dear one.’

The two girls were dressed, and standing over the fire waiting for the carriage in Cynthia’s room, when Maria (Betty’s successor) came hurrying into the room. Maria had been officiating as maid to Mrs. Gibson, but she had had intervals of leisure, in which she had rushed upstairs, and, under the pretence of offering her services, had seen the young ladies’ dresses, and the sight of so many nice clothes had sent her into a state of excitement which made her think nothing of rushing upstairs for the twentieth time, with a nosegay still more beautiful than the two previous ones.

‘Here, Miss Kirkpatrick! No, it’s not for you, Miss!’ as Molly, being nearer to the door, offered to take it and pass it to Cynthia. ‘It’s for Miss Kirkpatrick; and there’s a note for her besides!’

Cynthia said nothing, but took the note and the flowers. She held the note so that Molly could read it at the same time as she did.‘I send you some flowers; and you must allow me to claim the first dance after nine o’clock, before which time I fear I cannot arrive.‘C. P’

‘Who is it?’ asked Molly.

Cynthia looked extremely irritated, indignant, perplexed—what was it turned her cheek so pale, and made her eyes so full of fire?

‘It is Mr. Preston,’ said she, in answer to Molly. ‘I shall not dance with him; and here go his flowers ^______’

Into the very middle of the embers, which she immediately stirred down upon the beautiful shining petals as if she wished to annihilate them as soon as possible. Her voice had never been raised; it was as sweet as usual; nor, though her movements were prompt enough, were they hasty or violent.

‘Oh!’ said Molly, ‘those beautiful flowers! We might have put them in water.’

‘No,’ said Cynthia; ‘it’s best to destroy them. We don’t want them; and I can’t bear to be reminded of that man.’

‘It was an impertinent, familiar note,’ said Molly. ‘What right had he to express himself in that way—no beginning, no end, and only initials! Did you know him well when you were at Ashcombe, Cynthia?’

‘Oh, don’t let us think any more about him,’ replied Cynthia. ‘It is quite enough to spoil any pleasure at the ball to think that he will be there. But I hope I shall get engaged before he comes, so that I can’t dance with him—and don’t you either!’

‘There! they are calling for us,’ exclaimed Molly, and with quick step, yet careful of their draperies, they made their way downstairs to the place where Mr. and Mrs. Gibson awaited them. Yes; Mr. Gibson was going—even if he had to leave them afterwards to attend to any professional call. And Molly suddenly began to admire her father as a handsome man, when she saw him now, in full evening attire. Mrs. Gibson, too—how pretty she was! In short, it was true that no better-looking a party than these four people entered the Hollingford ball-room that evening.

CHAPTER 26

A Charity Ball

At the present time there are few people at a public ball besides the dancers and their chaperons, or relations in some degree interested in them. But in the days when Molly and Cynthia were young—before railroads were, and before their consequences, the excursion trains,^cb which take every one up to London nowadays, there to see their fill of gay crowds and fine dresses—to go to an annual charity ball, even though all thought of dancing had passed by years ago, and without any of the responsibilities of a chaperon, was a very allowable and favourite piece of dissipation to all the kindly old maids who thronged the country towns of England. They aired their old lace and their best dresses; they saw the aristocratic magnates of the country-side; they gossiped with their coevals, and speculated on the romances of the young around them in a curious yet friendly spirit. The Miss Brownings would have thought themselves sadly defraudedof the gayest event of the year, if anything had prevented their attending the charity ball, and Miss Browning would have been indignant, Miss Phoebe aggrieved, had they not been asked to Ashcombe and Coreham, by friends at each place, who had, like them, gone through the dancing-stage of life some five-and-twenty years before, but who liked still to haunt the scenes of their former enjoyment, and see a younger generation dance on, ‘regardless of their doom.’ They had come in one of the two sedan-chairs that yet lingered in use at Hollingford; such a night as this brought a regular harvest of gains to the two old men who, in what was called the ‘town’s hvery,’ trotted backwards and forwards with their many loads of ladies and finery. There were some postchaises, and some flys, but after mature deliberation Miss Browning had decided to keep to the more comfortable custom of the sedan-chair; ‘which,’ as she said to Miss Piper, one of her visitors, ‘came into the parlour, and got full of the warm air, and nipped you up, and carried you tight and cosy into another warm room, where you could walk out without having to show your legs by going up steps, or down steps.’ Of course only one could go at a time; but here again a little of Miss Browning’s good management arranged everything so very nicely, as Miss Hornblower (their other visitor) remarked. She went first, and remained in the warm cloak-room until her hostess followed; and then the two ladies went arm-in-arm into the ball-room, finding out convenient seats whence they could watch the arrivals and speak to their passing friends, until Miss Phoebe and Miss Piper entered, and came to take possession of the seats reserved for them by Miss Browning’s care. These two younger ladies came in, also arm-in-arm, but with a certain timid flurry in look and movement very different from the composed dignity of their seniors (by two or three years). When all four were once more assembled together, they took breath, and began to converse.

‘Upon my word, I really do think this is a better room than our Ashcombe Court-house!’

‘And how prettily it is decorated!’ piped out Miss Piper. ‘How well the roses are made! But you all have such a taste at Hollingford.’

‘There’s Mrs. Dempster,’ cried Miss Hornblower; ‘she said she and her two daughters were asked to stay at Mr. Sheepshanks’. Mr. Preston was to be there, too; but I suppose they could not all come at once. Look! and there is young Roscoe, our new doctor. I declare it seems as if all Ashcombe were here. Mr. Roscoe! Mr. Roscoe! come here and let me introduce you to Miss Browning, the friend we are staying with. We think very highly of our young doctor, I can assure you, Miss Browning.’

Mr. Roscoe bowed, and simpered at hearing his own praises. But Miss Browning had no notion of having any doctor praised who had come to settle on the very verge of Mr. Gibson’s practice, so she said to Miss Hornblower—

‘You must be glad, I am sure, to have somebody you can call in, if you are in any sudden hurry, or for things that are too trifling to trouble Mr. Gibson about; and I should think Mr. Roscoe would feel it a great advantage to profit, as he will naturally have the opportunity of doing, by witnessing Mr. Gibson’s skill!’

Probably Mr. Roscoe would have felt more aggrieved by this speech than he really was, if his attention had not been called off just then by the entrance of the very Mr. Gibson who was being spoken of Almost before Miss Browning had ended her severe and depreciatory remarks, he had asked his friend Miss Hornblower—

‘Who is that lovely girl in pink, just come in?’

‘Why, that’s Cynthia Kirkpatrick!’ said Miss Hornblower, taking up a ponderous gold eyeglass to make sure of her fact. ‘How she has grown! To be sure it is two or three years since she left Ashcombe—she was very pretty then—people did say Mr. Preston admired her very much; but she was so young!’

‘Can you introduce me?’ asked the impatient young surgeon. ‘I should like to ask her to dance.’

When Miss Hornblower returned from her greeting to her former acquaintance, Mrs. Gibson, and had accomplished the introduction which Mr. Roscoe had requested, she began her little confidences to Miss Browning.

‘Well, to be sure! How condescending we are! I remember the time when Mrs. Kirkpatrick wore old black silks, and was thankful and civil as became her place as a schoolmistress, and as having to earn her bread. And now she is in a satin; and she speaks to me as if she just could recollect who I was, if she tried very hard! It isn’t so long ago since Mrs. Dempster came to consult me as to whether Mrs. Kirkpatrick would be offended if she sent her a new breadth for her lilac silk gown in place of one that had been spoilt by Mrs. Dempster’s servant spilling the coffee over it the night before; and she took it and was thankful, for all she’s dressed in pearl-grey satin now! And she would have been glad enough to marry Mr. Preston in those days.’

‘I thought you said he admired her daughter,’ put in Miss Browning to her irritated friend.

‘Well! perhaps I did, and perhaps it was so; I am sure I can’t tell; he was a great deal at the house. Miss Dixon keeps a school in the same house now, and I am sure she does it a great deal better.’

‘The earl and the countess are very fond of Mrs. Gibson,’ said Miss Browning, ‘I know, for Lady Harriet told us when she came to drink tea with us last autumn; and they desired Mr. Preston to be very attentive to her when she lived at Ashcombe.’

‘For goodness’ sake don’t go and repeat what I’ve been saying about Mr. Preston and Mrs. Kirkpatrick to her ladyship. One may be mistaken, and you know I only said “people talked about it”.’

Miss Hornblower was evidently alarmed lest her gossip should be repeated to the Lady Harriet, who appeared to be on such an intimate footing with her Hollingford friends. Nor did Miss Browning dissipate the illusion. Lady Harriet had drunk tea with them, and might do it again; and, at any rate, the little fright she had put her friend into was not a bad return for that praise of Mr. Roscoe which had offended Miss Browning’s loyalty to Mr. Gibson.

Meanwhile Miss Piper and Miss Phoebe, who had not the character of esprit-forts^cc to maintain, talked of the dresses of the people present, beginning by complimenting each other.

‘What a lovely turban you have got on, Miss Piper, if I may be allowed to say so: so becoming to your complexion!’

‘Do you think so?’ said Miss Piper, with ill-concealed gratification; it was something to have a ‘complexion’ at forty-five. ‘I got it at Brown‘s, at Somerton, for this very ball. I thought I must have something to set off my gown, which isn’t quite so new as it once was; and I have no handsome jewellery like you’—looking with admiring eyes at a large miniature^cd set round with pearls, which served as a shield to Miss Phoebe’s breast.

‘It is handsome,’ that lady replied. ‘It is a likeness of my dear mother; Dorothy has got my father on. The miniatures were both taken at the same time; and just about then my uncle died and left us each a legacy of fifty pounds, which we agreed to spend on the setting of our miniatures. But because they are so valuable, Dorothy always keeps them locked up with the best silver, and hides the box somewhere; she never will tell me where, because she says I’ve such weak nerves, and that if a burglar, with a loaded pistol at my head, were to ask me where we kept our plate and jewels, I should be sure to tell him; and she says, for her part, she would never think of revealing under any circumstances. (I’m sure I hope she won’t be tried.) But that’s the reason I don’t wear it often; it’s only the second time I’ve had it on; and I can’t even get at it, and look at it, which I should like to do. I shouldn’t have had it on to-night, but that Dorothy gave it out to me, saying it was but a proper compliment to pay to the Duchess of Menteith, who is to be here in her diamonds.’

‘Dear-ah-me! Is she really! Do you know I never saw a duchess before.’ And Miss Piper drew herself up and craned her neck, as if resolved to ‘behave herself properly,’ as she had been taught to do at boarding-school thirty years before, in the presence of‘her grace.’ By and by she said to Phoebe, with a sudden jerk out of position—‘Look, look! that’s our Mr. Cholmley, the magistrate’ (he was the great man of Coreham), ‘and that’s Mrs. Cholmley in red satin, and Mr. George and Mr. Harry from Oxford, I do declare; and Miss Cholmley, and pretty Miss Sophy. I should like to go and speak to them, but then it’s so formidable crossing a room without a gentleman. And there is Coxe the butcher and his wife! Why, all Coreham seems to be here! And how Mrs. Coxe can afford such a gown I can’t make out for one, for I know Coxe had some difficulty in paying for the last sheep he bought of my brother.’

Just at this moment the band, consisting of two violins, a harp, and an occasional clarionet, having finished their tuning, and brought themselves as nearly into accord as was possible, struck up a brisk country-dance, and partners quickly took their places. Mrs. Gibson was secretly a little annoyed at Cynthia’s being one of those to stand up in this early dance, the performers in which were principally the punctual plebeians of Hollingford, who, when a ball was fixed to begin at eight, had no notion of being later, and so losing part of the amusement for which they had paid their money. She imparted some of her feelings to Molly, sitting by her, longing to dance, and beating time to the spirited music with one of her pretty little feet.

‘Your dear papa is always so very punctual! To-night it seems almost a pity, for we really are here before there is any one come that we know.’

‘Oh! I see so many people here that I know. There are Mr. and Mrs. Smeaton, and that nice good-tempered daughter.’

‘Oh! booksellers and butchers if you will.’

‘Papa has found a great many friends to talk to.’

‘Patients, my dear—hardly friends. There are some nice-looking people here,’ catching her eye on the Cholinleys: ‘but I daresay they have driven over from the neighbourhood of Ashcombe or Coreham, and have hardly calculated how soon they would get here. I wonder when the Towers’ party will come. Ah! there’s Mr. Ashton, and Mr. Preston. Come, the room is beginning to fill.’

So it was, for this was to be a very good ball, people said; and a large party from the Towers was coming, and a duchess in diamonds among the number. Every great house in the district was expected to be full of guests on these occasions; but at this early hour, the townspeople had the floor almost entirely to themselves; the county magnates came dropping in later; and chiefest among them all was the lord-lieutenant from the Towers. But to-night they were unusually late, and the aristocratic ozone being absent from the atmosphere, there was a flatness about the dancing of all those who considered themselves above the plebeian ranks of the tradespeople. They, however, enjoyed themselves thoroughly, and sprang and bounded till their eyes sparkled and their cheeks glowed with exercise and excitement. Some of the more prudent parents, mindful of the next day’s duties, began to consider at what hour they ought to go home; but with all there was an expressed or unexpressed curiosity to see the duchess and her diamonds; for the Menteith diamonds were famous in higher circles than that now assembled; and their fame had trickled down to it through the medium of ladies’ maids and housekeepers. Mr. Gibson had had to leave the ball-room for a time, as he had anticipated, but he was to return to his wife as soon as his duties were accomplished and, in his absence, Mrs. Gibson kept herself a little aloof from the Miss Brownings and those of her acquaintance who would willingly have entered into conversation with her, with the view of attaching herself to the skirts of the Towers’ party, when they should make their appearance. If Cynthia would not be so very ready in engaging herself to every possible partner who asked her to dance, there were sure to be young men staying at the Towers who would be on the look-out for pretty girls: and who could tell to what a dance might lead? Molly, too, though not so good a dancer as Cynthia, and, from timidity, less graceful and easy, was becoming engaged pretty deeply; and, it must be confessed, she was longing to dance every dance, no matter with whom. Even she might not be available for the more aristocratic partners Mrs. Gibson anticipated. She was feeling very much annoyed with the whole proceedings of the evening when she was aware of some one standing by her; and, turning a little to one side, she saw Mr. Preston keeping guard, as it were, over the seats which Molly and Cynthia had just quitted. He was looking so black that, if their eyes had not met, Mrs. Gibson would have preferred not speaking to him; as it was, she thought it unavoidable.

‘The rooms are not well lighted to-night, are they, Mr. Preston?’

‘No,’ said he; ‘but who could light such dingy old paint as this, loaded with evergreens, too, which always darken a room?’

‘And the company, too! I always think that freshness and brilliancy of dress go as far as anything to brighten up a room. Look what a set of people are here: the greater part of the women are dressed in dark silks, really only fit for a morning. The place will be quite different, by and by, when the county families are in a little more force.’

Mr. Preston made no reply. He had put his glass in his eye, apparently for the purpose of watching the dancers. If its exact direction could have been ascertained, it would have been found that he was looking intently and angrily at a flying figure in pink muslin: many a one was gazing at Cynthia with intentness besides himself, but no one in anger. Mrs. Gibson was not so fine an observer as to read all this; but here was a gentlemanly and handsome young man, to whom she could prattle, instead of either joining herself on to objectionable people, or sitting all forlorn until the Towers’ party came. So she went on with her small remarks.

‘You are not dancing, Mr. Preston!’

‘No! The partner I had engaged has made some mistake. I am waiting to have an explanation with her.’

Mrs. Gibson was silent. An uncomfortable tide of recollections appeared to come over her; she, like Mr. Preston, watched Cynthia; the dance was ended, and she was walking round the room in easy unconcern as to what might await her. Presently her partner, Mr. Harry Cholmley, brought her back to her seat. She took that vacant next to Mr. Preston, leaving that by her mother for Molly’s occupation. The latter returned a moment afterwards to her place. Cynthia seemed entirely unconscious of Mr. Preston’s neighbourhood. Mrs. Gibson leaned forwards, and said to her daughter—

‘Your last partner was a gentleman, my dear. You are improving in your selection. I really was ashamed of you before, figuring away with that attorney’s clerk. Molly, do you know whom you have been dancing with? I have found out he is the Coreham bookseller.’

‘That accounts for his being so well up in all the books I’ve been wanting to hear about,’ said Molly, eagerly, but with a spice of malice in her mind. ‘He really was very pleasant, mamma,’ she added; ‘and he looks quite a gentleman, and dances beautifully!’

‘Very well. But remember, if you go on this way, you will have to shake hands over the counter to-morrow morning with some of your partners of to-night,’ said Mrs. Gibson, coldly.

‘But I really don’t know how to refuse when people are introduced to me and ask me, and I am longing to dance. You know to-night it is a charity ball, and papa said everybody danced with everybody,’ said Molly, in a pleading tone of voice; for she could not quite and entirely enjoy herself if she was out of harmony with any one. What reply Mrs. Gibson would have made to this speech cannot now be ascertained; for, before she could make reply, Mr. Preston stepped a little forwards, and said, in a tone which he meant to be icily indifferent, but which trembled with anger—

‘If Miss Gibson finds any difficulty in refusing a partner, she has only to apply to Miss Kirkpatrick for instructions.’

Cynthia lifted up her beautiful eyes, and, fixing them on Mr. Preston’s face, said, very quietly, as if only stating a matter of fact—

‘You forget, I think, Mr. Preston: Miss Gibson implied that she wished to dance with the person who asked her—that makes all the difference. I can’t instruct her how to act in that difficulty.’

And to the rest of this little conversation, Cynthia appeared to lend no ear; and she was almost directly claimed by her next partner. Mr. Preston took the seat now left empty, much to Molly’s annoyance. At first she feared lest he should be going to ask her to dance; but, instead, he put out his hand for Cynthia’s nosegay, which she had left on rising, entrusted to Molly. It had suffered considerably from the heat of the room, and was no longer full and fresh; not so much so as Molly’s, which had not, in the first instance, been pulled to pieces in picking out the scarlet flowers which now adorned Molly’s hair, and which had since been cherished with more care. Enough, however, remained of Cynthia’s to show very distinctly that it was not the one Mr. Preston had sent; and it was perhaps to convince himself of this, that he rudely asked to examine it. But Molly, faithful to what she imagined would be Cynthia’s wish, refused to allow him to touch it; she only held it a little nearer.

‘Miss Kirkpatrick has not done me the honour of wearing the bouquet I sent her, I see. She received it, I suppose, and my note?’

‘Yes,’ said Molly, rather intimidated by the tone in which this was said. ‘But we had already accepted these two nosegays.’

Mrs. Gibson was just the person to come to the rescue with her honeyed words on such an occasion as the present. She evidently was rather afraid of Mr. Preston, and wished to keep at peace with him.

‘Oh, yes, we were so sorry! Of course, I don’t mean to say we could be sorry for any one’s kindness; but two such lovely nosegays had been sent from Hamley Hall—you may see how beautiful from what Molly holds in her hand—and they had come before yours, Mr. Preston.’

‘I should have felt honoured if you had accepted of mine, since the young ladies were so well provided for. I was at some pains in selecting the flowers at Green’s; I think I may say it was rather more recherché^ce than that of Miss Kirkpatrick’s which Miss Gibson holds so tenderly and securely in her hand.’

‘Oh, because Cynthia would take out the most effective flowers to put in my hair!’ exclaimed Molly, eagerly.

‘Did she?’ said Mr. Preston, with a certain accent of pleasure in his voice, as though he were glad she set so little store by the nosegay; and he walked off to stand behind Cynthia in the quadrille that was being danced; and Molly saw him making her reply to him—against her will, Molly was sure. But, somehow, his face and manner implied power over her. She looked grave, deaf, indifferent, indignant, defiant; but, after a half-whispered speech to Cynthia, at the conclusion of the dance, she evidently threw him an impatient consent to what he was asking, for he walked off with a disagreeable smile of satisfaction on his handsome face.

All this time the murmurs were spreading at the lateness of the party from the Towers, and person after person came up to Mrs. Gibson as if she were the accredited authority as to the earl and countess’s plans. In one sense this was flattering; but then the acknowledgment of common ignorance and wonder reduced her to the level of the inquirers. Mrs. Goodenough felt herself particularly aggrieved; she had had her spectacles on for the last hour and a half, in order to be ready for the sight the very first minute any one from the Towers appeared at the door.

‘I had a headache,’ she complained, ‘and I should have sent my money, and never stirred out o’ doors to-night; for I’ve seen a many of these here balls, and my lord and my lady too, when they were better worth looking at nor they are now; but every one was talking of the duchess, and the duchess and her diamonds, and I thought I shouldn’t like to be behindhand, and never ha’ seen neither the duchess nor her diamonds; so I’m here, and coal and candle-light wasting away at home, for I told Sally to sit up for me; and, above everything, I cannot abide waste. I took it from my mother, who was such a one against waste as you never see nowadays. She was a manager, if ever there was a one; and brought up nine children on less than any one else could do, I’ll be bound. Why! she wouldn’t let us be extravagant—not even in the matter of colds. Whenever any on us had got a pretty bad cold, she took the opportunity and cut our hair; for she said, said she, it was of no use having two colds when one would do—and cutting of our hair was sure to give us a cold. But, for all that, I wish the duchess would come.’

‘Ah! but fancy, what it is to me,’ sighed out Mrs. Gibson; ‘so long as I have been without seeing the dear family—and seeing so little of them the other day when I was at the Towers (for the duchess would have my opinion on Lady Alice’s trousseau, and kept asking me so many questions it took up all the time)—and Lady Harriet’s last words were a happy anticipation of our meeting to-night. It’s nearly twelve o’clock.’

Everyone of any pretensions to gentility was painfully affected by the absence of the family from the Towers; the very fiddlers seemed unwilling to begin playing a dance that might be interrupted by the entrance of the great folks. Miss Phoebe Browning had apologized for them—Miss Browning had blamed them with calm dignity; it was only the butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers who rather enjoyed the absence of restraint, and were happy and hilarious.

At last, there was a rumbling, and a rushing, and a whispering, and the music stopped; so the dancers were obliged to do so too; and in came Lord Cumnor in his state dress, with a fat, middle-aged woman on his arm; she was dressed almost like a girl—in a sprigged mushn, with natural flowers in her hair, but not a vestige of a jewel or a diamond. Yet it must be the duchess; but what was a duchess without diamonds?—and in a dress which farmer Hodson’s daughter might have worn! Was it the duchess? Could it be the duchess?¹ The little crowd of inquirers around Mrs. Gibson thickened, to hear her confirm their disappointing surmise. After the duchess came Lady Cumnor, looking like Lady Macbeth in black velvet—a cloud upon her brow, made more conspicuous by the lines of age rapidly gathering on her handsome face; and Lady Harriet, and other ladies, amongst whom there was one dressed so like the duchess as to suggest the idea of a sister rather than a daughter, as far as dress went. There was Lord Hollingford, plain in face, awkward in person, gentlemanly in manner; and half a dozen younger men, Lord Albert Monson, Captain James, and others of their age and standing, who came in, looking anything if not critical. This long-expected party swept up to the seats reserved for them at the head of the room, apparently regardless of the interruption they caused; for the dancers stood aside, and almost dispersed back to their seats, and when ‘Moneymusk’ struck up again, not half the former set of people stood up to finish the dance.

Lady Harriet, who was rather different to Miss Piper, and no more minded crossing the room alone than if the lookers-on were so many cabbages, spied the Gibson party pretty quickly out, and came across to them.

‘Here we are at last. How dy’e do, dear? Why, little one,’ (to Molly) ‘how nice you’re looking! Aren’t we shamefully late?’

‘Oh! It’s only just past twelve,’ said Mrs. Gibson; ‘and I dare say you dined very late.’

‘It was not that; it was that ill-mannered woman, who went to her own room after we came out from dinner, and she and Lady Alice stayed there invisible, till we thought they were putting on some splendid attire—as they ought to have done—and at half-past ten, when mamma sent up to them to say the carriages were at the door, the duchess sent down for some beef-tea, and at last appeared d l’ enfant ^cf as you see her. Mamma is so angry with her, and some of the others are annoyed at not coming earlier, and one or two are giving themselves airs about coming at all. Papa is the only one not affected by it.’ Then, turning to Molly, Lady Harriet asked—

‘Have you been dancing much, Miss Gibson?’

‘Yes; not every dance, but nearly all.’

It was a simple question enough; but Lady Harriet’s speaking at all to Molly had become to Mrs. Gibson almost like shaking a red rag at a bull; it was the one thing sure to put her out of temper. But she would not have shown this to Lady Harriet for the world; only she contrived to baffle any endeavours at further conversation between the two, by placing herself betwixt Lady Harriet and Molly, when the former asked to sit down in the absent Cynthia’s room.

‘I won’t go back to those people, I am so mad with them; and, besides, I hardly saw you the other day, and I must have some gossip with you.’ So she sat down by Mrs. Gibson, and, as Mrs. Goodenough afterwards expressed it, ‘looked like anybody else.’ Mrs. Goodenough said this to excuse herself for a little misadventure she fell into. She had taken a deliberate survey of the grandees at the upper end of the room, spectacles on nose, and had inquired in no very measured voice, who everybody was, from Mr. Sheepshanks, my lord’s agent, and her very good neighbour, who in vain tried to check her loud ardour for information by replying to her in whispers. But she was rather deaf as well as blind, so his low tones only brought upon him fresh inquiries. Now, satisfied as far as she could be, and on her way to departure, and the extinguishing of fire and candle-light, she stopped opposite to Mrs. Gibson, and thus addressed her by way of renewal of their former subject of conversation:—

‘Such a shabby thing for a duchess I never saw; not a bit of a diamond near her! They’re none of ’em worth looking at except the countess, and she’s always a personable woman, and not so lusty as she was. But they’re not worth waiting up for till this time o’ night.’

There was a moment’s pause. Then Lady Harriet put her hand out, and said—

‘You don’t remember me, but I know you from having seen you at the Towers. Lady Cumnor is a good deal thinner than she was, but we hope her health is better for it.’

‘It’s Lady Harriet,’ said Mrs. Gibson to Mrs. Goodenough, in reproachful dismay.

‘Deary me, your ladyship! I hope I’ve given no offence! But, you see—that is to say, your ladyship sees, that it’s late hours for such folks as me, and I only stayed out of my bed to see the duchess, and I thought she’d come in diamonds and a coronet; and it puts one out, at my age, to be disappointed in the only chance I’m like to have of so fine a sight.’

‘I’m put out too,’ said Lady Harriet. ‘I wanted to have come early, and here we are as late as this. I’m so cross and ill-tempered, I should be glad to hide myself in bed as soon as you will do.’

She said this so sweetly that Mrs. Goodenough relaxed into a smile, and her crabbedness into a compliment.

‘I don’t believe as ever your ladyship can be cross and ill-tempered with that pretty face. I’m an old woman, so you must let me say so.’ Lady Harriet stood up, and made a low curtsy Then holding out her hand, she said—

‘I won’t keep you up any longer; but I’ll promise one thing in return for your pretty speech; if ever I am a duchess, I’ll come and show myself to you in all my robes and gewgaws. Good-night, madam!’

‘There! I knew how it would be!’ said she, not resuming her seat. ‘And on the eve of a county election too.’

‘Oh! you must not take old Mrs. Goodenough as a specimen, dear Lady Harriet. She is always a grumbler! I am sure no one else would complain of your all being as late as you liked,’ said Mrs. Gibson.

‘What do you say, Molly?’ said Lady Harriet, suddenly turning her eyes on Molly’s face. ‘Don’t you think we’ve lost some of our popularity—which at this time means votes—by coming so late? Come, answer me! you used to be a famous little truthteller.’

‘I don’t know about popularity or votes,’ said Molly, rather unwillingly. ‘But I think many people were sorry you did not come sooner; and isn’t that rather a proof of popularity?’ she added.

‘That’s a very neat and diplomatic answer,’ said Lady Harriet, smiling, and tapping Molly’s cheek with her fan.

‘Molly knows nothing about it,’ said Mrs. Gibson, a little off her guard. ‘It would be very impertinent if she or any one else questioned Lady Cumnor’s perfect right to come when she chose.’

‘Well, all I know is, I must go back to mamma now; but I shall make another raid into these regions by and by, and you must keep a place for me. Ah! there are———Miss Brownings; you see I don’t forget my lesson, Miss Gibson.’

‘Molly, I cannot have you speaking so to Lady Harriet,’ said Mrs. Gibson as soon as she was left alone with her stepdaughter. ‘You would never have known her at all if it had not been for me, and don’t be always putting yourself into our conversation.’

‘But I must speak if she asks me questions,’ pleaded Molly.

‘Well! if you must, you must, I acknowledge. I’m candid about that, at any rate. But there’s no need for you to set up to have an opinion at your age.’

‘I don’t know how to help it,’ said Molly.

‘She’s such a whimsical person; look there, if she’s not talking to Miss Phoebe; and Miss Phoebe is so weak she’ll be easily led away into fancying she is hand and glove with Lady Harriet. If there is one thing I hate more than another, it is the trying to make out an intimacy with great people.’

Molly felt innocent enough, so she offered no justification of herself, and made no reply. Indeed she was more occupied in watching Cynthia. She could not understand the change that seemed to have come over her. She was dancing, it was true, with the same lightness and grace as before, but the smooth bounding motion as of a feather blown onwards by the wind, was gone. She was conversing with her partner, but without the soft animation that usually shone out upon her countenance. And when she was brought back to her seat Molly noticed her changed colour, and her dreamily abstracted eyes.

‘What is the matter, Cynthia?’ asked she, in a very low voice.

‘Nothing,’ said Cynthia, suddenly looking up, and in an accent of what was, in her, sharpness. ‘Why should there be?’

‘I don’t know; but you look different to what you did—tired or something.’

‘There is nothing the matter, or, if there is, don’t talk about it. It is all your fancy’

This was a rather contradictory speech, to be interpreted by intuition rather than by logic. Molly understood that Cynthia wished for quietness and silence. But what was her surprise, after the speeches that had passed before, and the implication of Cynthia’s whole manner to Mr. Preston, to see him come up to her, and, without a word, offer his arm and lead her away to dance. It appeared to strike Mrs. Gibson as something remarkable; for, forgetting her late passage at arms with Molly, she asked, wonderingly, as if almost distrusting the evidence of her senses—

‘Is Cynthia going to dance with Mr. Preston?’

Molly had scarcely time to answer before she herself was led off by her partner. She could hardly attend to him or to the figures of the quadrille for watching for Cynthia among the moving forms.

Once she caught a glimpse of her standing still—downcast—listening to Mr. Preston’s eager speech. Again she was walking languidly among the dancers, almost as if she took no notice of those around her. When she and Molly joined each other again, the shade on Cynthia’s face had deepened to gloom. But, at the same time, if a physiognomist^cg had studied her expression, he would have read in it defiance and anger, and perhaps also a little perplexity. While this quadrille was going on, Lady Harriet had been speaking to her brother.

‘Hollingford!’ she said, laying her hand on his arm, and drawing him a little apart from the well-born crowd amid which he stood, silent and abstracted, ‘you don’t know how these good people here have been hurt and disappointed with our being so late, and with the duchess’s ridiculous simplicity of dress.’

‘Why should they mind it?’ asked he, taking advantage of her being out of breath with eagerness.

‘Oh, don’t be so wise and stupid; don’t you see, we’re a show and a spectacle—it’s like having a pantomime with harlequin and columbine in plain clothes.’

‘I don’t understand how——’ he began.

‘Then take it upon trust. They really are a little disappointed, whether they are logical or not in being so, and we must try and make it up to them; for one thing, because I can’t bear our vassals to look dissatisfied and disloyal, and then there’s the election in June.’

‘I really would as soon be out of the House as in it.’

‘Nonsense; it would grieve papa beyond measure—but there is no time to talk about that now. You must go and dance with some of the townspeople, and I’ll ask Sheepshanks to introduce me to a respectable young farmer. Can’t you get Captain James to make himself useful? There he goes with Lady Alice! If I don’t get him introduced to the ugliest tailor’s daughter I can find for the next dance!’ She put her arm in her brother’s as she spoke, as if to lead him to some partner. He resisted, however—resisted piteously.

‘Pray don’t, Harriet. You know I can’t dance. I hate it; I always did. I don’t know how to get through a quadrille.’

‘It’s a country dance!’ said she, resolutely.

‘It’s all the same. And what shall I say to my partner? I haven’t a notion: I shall have no subject in common. Speak of being disappointed, they’ll be ten times more disappointed when they find I can neither dance nor talk!’

‘I’ll be merciful; don’t be so cowardly. In their eyes a lord may dance like a bear—as some lords not very far from me are—if he likes, and they’ll take it for grace. And you shall begin with Molly Gibson, your friend the doctor’s daughter. She’s a good, simple, intelligent little girl, which you’ll think a great deal more of, I suppose, than of the frivolous fact of her being very pretty. Clare! will you allow me to introduce my brother to Miss Gibson? he hopes to engage her for this dance. “Lord Hollingfbrd,—Miss Gibson”!’

Poor Lord Hollingford! there was nothing for him but to follow his sister’s very explicit lead, and Molly and he walked off to their places, each heartily wishing their dance together well over. Lady Harriet flew off to Mr. Sheepshanks to secure her respectable young farmer, and Mrs. Gibson remained alone, wishing that Lady Cumnor would send one of her attendant gentlemen for her. It would be so much more agreeable to be sitting even at the fag-end of nobility than here on a bench with everybody; hoping that everybody would see Molly dancing away with a lord, yet vexed that the chance had so befallen that Molly instead of Cynthia was the young lady singled out; wondering if simplicity of dress was now become the highest fashion, and pondering on the possibility of cleverly inducing Lady Harriet to introduce Lord Albert Monson to her own beautiful daughter, Cynthia.