TROUBLE AT HAMLEY HALL.
If Molly thought that peace dwelt perpetually at Hamley Hall
she was sorely mistaken. Something was out of tune in the whole
establishment; and, for a very unusual thing, the common irritation
seemed to have produced a common bond. All the servants were old in
their places, and were told by some one of the family, or gathered,
from the unheeded conversation carried on before them, everything
that affected master or mistress or either of the young gentlemen.
Any one of them could have told Molly that the grievance which lay at
the root of everything, was the amount of the bills run up by Osborne
at Cambridge, and which, now that all chance of his obtaining a
fellowship was over, came pouring down upon the Squire. But Molly,
confident of being told by Mrs. Hamley herself anything which she
wished her to hear, encouraged no confidences from any one else.
She was struck with the change in "madam's" look as soon as she
caught sight of her in the darkened room, lying on the sofa in her
dressing-room, all dressed in white, which almost rivalled the white
wanness of her face. The Squire ushered Molly in with,--
"Here she is at last!" and Molly had scarcely imagined that he had so
much variety in the tones of his voice--the beginning of the sentence
was spoken in a loud congratulatory manner, while the last words
were scarcely audible. He had seen the death-like pallor on his
wife's face; not a new sight, and one which had been presented to him
gradually enough, but which was now always giving him a fresh shock.
It was a lovely tranquil winter's day; every branch and every twig
on the trees and shrubs was glittering with drops of the sun-melted
hoar-frost; a robin was perched on a holly-bush, piping cheerily; but
the blinds were down, and out of Mrs. Hamley's windows nothing of all
this was to be seen. There was even a large screen placed between
her and the wood-fire, to keep off that cheerful blaze. Mrs. Hamley
stretched out one hand to Molly, and held hers firm; with the other
she shaded her eyes.
"She is not so well this morning," said the Squire, shaking his head.
"But never fear, my dear one; here's the doctor's daughter, nearly
as good as the doctor himself. Have you had your medicine? Your
beef-tea?" he continued, going about on heavy tiptoe and peeping into
every empty cup and glass. Then he returned to the sofa; looked at
her for a minute or two, and then softly kissed her, and told Molly
he would leave her in charge.
As if Mrs. Hamley was afraid of Molly's remarks or questions, she
began in her turn a hasty system of interrogatories.
"Now, dear child, tell me all; it's no breach of confidence, for I
shan't mention it again, and I shan't be here long. How does it all
go on--the new mother, the good resolutions? let me help you if I
can. I think with a girl I could have been of use--a mother does not
know boys. But tell me anything you like and will; don't be afraid of
details."
Even with Molly's small experience of illness she saw how much of
restless fever there was in this speech; and instinct, or some
such gift, prompted her to tell a long story of many things--the
wedding-day, her visit to Miss Brownings', the new furniture, Lady
Harriet, &c., all in an easy flow of talk which was very soothing
to Mrs. Hamley, inasmuch as it gave her something to think about
beyond her own immediate sorrows. But Molly did not speak of her own
grievances, nor of the new domestic relationship. Mrs. Hamley noticed
this.
"And you and Mrs. Gibson get on happily together?"
"Not always," said Molly. "You know we didn't know much of each other
before we were put to live together."
"I didn't like what the Squire told me last night. He was very
angry."
That sore had not yet healed over; but Molly resolutely kept silence,
beating her brains to think of some other subject of conversation.
"Ah! I see, Molly," said Mrs. Hamley; "you won't tell me your
sorrows, and yet, perhaps, I could have done you some good."
"I don't like," said Molly, in a low voice. "I think papa wouldn't
like it. And, besides, you have helped me so much--you and Mr.
Roger Hamley. I often think of the things he said; they come in so
usefully, and are such a strength to me."
"Ah, Roger! yes. He is to be trusted. Oh, Molly! I've a great deal
to say to you myself, only not now. I must have my medicine and try
to go to sleep. Good girl! You are stronger than I am, and can do
without sympathy."
Molly was taken to another room; the maid who conducted her to it
told her that Mrs. Hamley had not wished her to have her nights
disturbed, as they might very probably have been if she had been in
her former sleeping-room. In the afternoon Mrs. Hamley sent for her,
and with the want of reticence common to invalids, especially to
those suffering from long and depressing maladies, she told Molly of
the family distress and disappointment.
She made Molly sit down near her on a little stool, and, holding her
hand, and looking into her eyes to catch her spoken sympathy from
their expression quicker than she could from her words, she said,--
"Osborne has so disappointed us! I cannot understand it yet. And the
Squire was so terribly angry! I cannot think how all the money was
spent--advances through money-lenders, besides bills. The Squire
does not show me how angry he is now, because he's afraid of another
attack; but I know how angry he is. You see he has been spending ever
so much money in reclaiming that land at Upton Common, and is very
hard pressed himself. But it would have doubled the value of the
estate, and so we never thought anything of economies which would
benefit Osborne in the long run. And now the Squire says he must
mortgage some of the land; and you can't think how it cuts him to
the heart. He sold a great deal of timber to send the two boys to
college. Osborne--oh! what a dear, innocent boy he was: he was the
heir, you know; and he was so clever, every one said he was sure of
honours and a fellowship, and I don't know what all; and he did get
a scholarship, and then all went wrong. I don't know how. That is
the worst. Perhaps the Squire wrote too angrily, and that stopped up
confidence. But he might have told me. He would have done, I think,
Molly, if he had been here, face to face with me. But the Squire, in
his anger, told him not to show his face at home till he had paid off
the debts he had incurred out of his allowance. Out of two hundred
and fifty a year to pay off more than nine hundred, one way or
another! And not to come home till then! Perhaps Roger will have
debts too! He had but two hundred; but, then, he was not the eldest
son. The Squire has given orders that the men are to be turned off
the draining-works; and I lie awake thinking of their poor families
this wintry weather. But what shall we do? I've never been strong,
and, perhaps, I've been extravagant in my habits; and there were
family traditions as to expenditure, and the reclaiming of this land.
Oh! Molly, Osborne was such a sweet little baby, and such a loving
boy: so clever, too! You know I read you some of his poetry: now,
could a person who wrote like that do anything very wrong? And yet
I'm afraid he has."
"Don't you know, at all, how the money has gone?" asked Molly.
"No! not at all. That's the sting. There are tailors' bills,
and bills for book-binding and wine and pictures--those come
to four or five hundred; and though this expenditure is
extraordinary--inexplicable to such simple folk as we are--yet it
may be only the luxury of the present day. But the money for which
he will give no account,--of which, indeed, we only heard through
the Squire's London agents, who found out that certain disreputable
attorneys were making inquiries as to the entail of the estate;--oh!
Molly, worse than all--I don't know how to bring myself to tell
you--as to the age and health of the Squire, his dear father"--(she
began to sob almost hysterically; yet she would go on talking, in
spite of Molly's efforts to stop her)--"who held him in his arms, and
blessed him, even before I had kissed him; and thought always so much
of him as his heir and first-born darling. How he has loved him! How
I have loved him! I sometimes have thought of late that we've almost
done that good Roger injustice."
"No! I'm sure you've not: only look at the way he loves you. Why, you
are his first thought: he may not speak about it, but any one may see
it. And dear, dear Mrs. Hamley," said Molly, determined to say out
all that was in her mind now that she had once got the word, "don't
you think that it would be better not to misjudge Mr. Osborne Hamley?
We don't know what he has done with the money: he is so good (is he
not?) that he may have wanted it to relieve some poor person--some
tradesman, for instance, pressed by creditors--some--"
"You forget, dear," said Mrs. Hamley, smiling a little at the girl's
impetuous romance, but sighing the next instant, "that all the other
bills come from tradesmen, who complain piteously of being kept out
of their money."
Molly was nonplussed for the moment; but then she said,--
"I daresay they imposed upon him. I'm sure I've heard stories of
young men being made regular victims of by the shopkeepers in great
towns."
"You're a great darling, child," said Mrs. Hamley, comforted by
Molly's strong partisanship, unreasonable and ignorant though it was.
"And, besides," continued Molly, "some one must be acting wrongly in
Osborne's--Mr. Osborne Hamley's, I mean--I can't help saying Osborne
sometimes, but, indeed, I always think of him as Mr. Osborne--"
"Never mind, Molly, what you call him; only go on talking. It
seems to do me good to hear the hopeful side taken. The Squire has
been so hurt and displeased: strange-looking men coming into the
neighbourhood, too, questioning the tenants, and grumbling about the
last fall of timber, as if they were calculating on the Squire's
death."
"That's just what I was going to speak about. Doesn't it show that
they are bad men? and would bad men scruple to impose upon him, and
to tell lies in his name, and to ruin him?"
"Don't you see, you only make him out weak, instead of wicked?"
"Yes; perhaps I do. But I don't think he is weak. You know yourself,
dear Mrs. Hamley, how very clever he really is. Besides, I would
rather he was weak than wicked. Weak people may find themselves all
at once strong in heaven, when they see things quite clearly; but I
don't think the wicked will turn themselves into virtuous people all
at once."
"I think I've been very weak, Molly," said Mrs. Hamley, stroking
Molly's curls affectionately. "I've made such an idol of my beautiful
Osborne; and he turns out to have feet of clay, not strong enough to
stand firm on the ground. And that's the best view of his conduct,
too!"
What with his anger against his son, and his anxiety about his wife;
the difficulty of raising the money immediately required, and his
irritation at the scarce-concealed inquiries made by strangers as to
the value of his property, the poor Squire was in a sad state. He
was angry and impatient with every one who came near him; and then
was depressed at his own violent temper and unjust words. The old
servants, who, perhaps, cheated him in many small things, were
beautifully patient under his upbraidings. They could understand
bursts of passion, and knew the cause of his variable moods as well
as he did himself. The butler, who was accustomed to argue with his
master about every fresh direction as to his work, now nudged Molly
at dinner-time to make her eat of some dish which she had just been
declining, and explained his conduct afterwards as follows:--
"You see, miss, me and cook had planned a dinner as would tempt
master to eat; but when you say, 'No, thank you,' when I hand you
anything, master never so much as looks at it. But if you takes a
thing, and eats with a relish, why first he waits, and then he looks,
and by-and-by he smells; and then he finds out as he's hungry, and
falls to eating as natural as a kitten takes to mewing. That's the
reason, miss, as I gave you a nudge and a wink, which no one knows
better nor me was not manners."
Osborne's name was never mentioned during these cheerless meals. The
Squire asked Molly questions about Hollingford people, but did not
seem much to attend to her answers. He used also to ask her every day
how she thought that his wife was; but if Molly told the truth--that
every day seemed to make her weaker and weaker--he was almost savage
with the girl. He could not bear it; and he would not. Nay, once he
was on the point of dismissing Mr. Gibson because he insisted on a
consultation with Dr. Nicholls, the great physician of the county.
"It's nonsense thinking her so ill as that--you know it's only the
delicacy she's had for years; and if you can't do her any good in
such a simple case--no pain--only weakness and nervousness--it is a
simple case, eh?--don't look in that puzzled way, man!--you'd better
give her up altogether, and I'll take her to Bath or Brighton,
or somewhere for change, for in my opinion it's only moping and
nervousness."
But the Squire's bluff florid face was pinched with anxiety, and worn
with the effort of being deaf to the footsteps of fate as he said
these words which belied his fears.
Mr. Gibson replied very quietly,--
"I shall go on coming to see her, and I know you'll not forbid my
visits. But I shall bring Dr. Nicholls with me the next time I come.
I may be mistaken in my treatment; and I wish to God he may say I am
mistaken in my apprehensions."
"Don't tell me them! I cannot bear them!" cried the Squire. "Of
course we must all die; and she must too. But the cleverest doctor
in England shan't go about coolly meting out the life of such as her.
I daresay I shall die first. I hope I shall. But I'll knock any one
down who speaks to me of death sitting within me. And, besides, I
think all doctors are ignorant quacks, pretending to knowledge they
haven't got. Ay, you may smile at me. I don't care. Unless you can
tell me I shall die first, neither you nor your Dr. Nicholls shall
come prophesying and croaking about this house."
Mr. Gibson went away, heavy at heart from the thought of Mrs.
Hamley's approaching death, but thinking little enough of the
Squire's speeches. He had almost forgotten them, in fact, when about
nine o'clock that evening, a groom rode in from Hamley Hall in hot
haste, with a note from the Squire.
DEAR GIBSON,--
For God's sake forgive me if I was rude to-day. She is
much worse. Come and spend the night here. Write for
Nicholls, and all the physicians you want. Write before
you start off. They may give her ease. There were
Whitworth doctors much talked of in my youth for curing
people given up by the regular doctors; can't you get one
of them? I put myself in your hands. Sometimes I think it
is the turning point, and she'll rally after this bout. I
trust all to you.
Yours ever,
R. HAMLEY.
P.S.--Molly is a treasure.--God help me!
Of course Mr. Gibson went; for the first time since his marriage
cutting short Mrs. Gibson's querulous lamentations over her life,
as involved in that of a doctor called out at all hours of day and
night.
He brought Mrs. Hamley through this attack; and for a day or two the
Squire's alarm and gratitude made him docile in Mr. Gibson's hands.
Then he returned to the idea of its being a crisis through which his
wife had passed; and that she was now on the way to recovery. But
the day after the consultation with Dr. Nicholls, Mr. Gibson said to
Molly,--
"Molly! I've written to Osborne and Roger. Do you know Osborne's
address?"
"No, papa. He's in disgrace. I don't know if the Squire knows; and
she has been too ill to write."
"Never mind. I'll enclose it to Roger; whatever those lads may be to
others, there's as strong brotherly love as ever I saw, between the
two. Roger will know. And, Molly, they are sure to come home as soon
as they hear my report of their mother's state. I wish you'd tell the
Squire what I've done. It's not a pleasant piece of work; and I'll
tell madam myself in my own way. I'd have told him if he'd been at
home; but you say he was obliged to go to Ashcombe on business."
"Quite obliged. He was so sorry to miss you. But, papa, he will be so
angry! You don't know how mad he is against Osborne."
Molly dreaded the Squire's anger when she gave him her father's
message. She had seen quite enough of the domestic relations of
the Hamley family to understand that, underneath his old-fashioned
courtesy, and the pleasant hospitality he showed to her as a guest,
there was a strong will, and a vehement passionate temper, along with
that degree of obstinacy in prejudices (or "opinions," as he would
have called them) so common to those who have, neither in youth nor
in manhood, mixed largely with their kind. She had listened, day
after day, to Mrs. Hamley's plaintive murmurs as to the deep disgrace
in which Osborne was being held by his father--the prohibition of his
coming home; and she hardly knew how to begin to tell him that the
letter summoning Osborne had already been sent off.
Their dinners were tte--tte. The Squire tried to make them
pleasant to Molly, feeling deeply grateful to her for the soothing
comfort she was to his wife. He made merry speeches, which sank
away into silence, and at which they each forgot to smile. He
ordered up rare wines, which she did not care for, but tasted out of
complaisance. He noticed that one day she had eaten some brown beurr
pears as if she liked them; and as his trees had not produced many
this year, he gave directions that this particular kind should be
sought for through the neighbourhood. Molly felt that, in many ways,
he was full of good-will towards her; but it did not diminish her
dread of touching on the one sore point in the family. However, it
had to be done, and that without delay.
The great log was placed on the after-dinner fire, the hearth swept
up, the ponderous candles snuffed, and then the door was shut and
Molly and the Squire were left to their dessert. She sat at the side
of the table in her old place. That at the head was vacant; yet, as
no orders had been given to the contrary, the plate and glasses and
napkin were always arranged as regularly and methodically as if Mrs.
Hamley would come in as usual. Indeed, sometimes, when the door
by which she used to enter was opened by any chance, Molly caught
herself looking round as if she expected to see the tall, languid
figure in the elegant draperies of rich silk and soft lace, which
Mrs. Hamley was wont to wear of an evening.
This evening, it struck her, as a new thought of pain, that into
that room she would come no more. She had fixed to give her father's
message at this very point of time; but something in her throat
choked her, and she hardly knew how to govern her voice. The Squire
got up and went to the broad fireplace, to strike into the middle of
the great log, and split it up into blazing, sparkling pieces. His
back was towards her. Molly began, "When papa was here to-day, he
bade me tell you he had written to Mr. Roger Hamley to say that--that
he thought he had better come home; and he enclosed a letter to Mr.
Osborne Hamley to say the same thing."
The Squire put down the poker, but he still kept his back to Molly.
"He sent for Osborne and Roger?" he asked, at length.
Molly answered, "Yes."
Then there was a dead silence, which Molly thought would never end.
The Squire had placed his two hands on the high chimney-piece, and
stood leaning over the fire.
"Roger would have been down from Cambridge on the 18th," said he.
"And he has sent for Osborne, too! Did he know,"--he continued,
turning round to Molly, with something of the fierceness she had
anticipated in voice and look. In another moment he had dropped his
voice. "It's right, quite right. I understand. It has come at length.
Come! come! Osborne has brought it on, though," with a fresh access
of anger in his tones. "She might have" (some word Molly could not
hear--she thought it sounded like "lingered") "but for that. I can't
forgive him; I cannot."
And then he suddenly left the room. While Molly sat there still, very
sad in her sympathy with all, he put his head in again:--
"Go to her, my dear; I cannot--not just yet. But I will soon. Just
this bit; and after that I won't lose a moment. You're a good girl.
God bless you!"
It is not to be supposed that Molly had remained all this time at the
Hall without interruption. Once or twice her father had brought her
a summons home. Molly thought she could perceive that he had brought
it unwillingly; in fact, it was Mrs. Gibson that had sent for her,
almost, as it were, to preserve a "right of way" through her actions.
"You shall come back to-morrow, or the next day," her father had
said. "But mamma seems to think people will put a bad construction on
your being so much away from home so soon after our marriage."
"Oh, papa, I'm afraid Mrs. Hamley will miss me! I do so like being
with her."
"I don't think it is likely she will miss you as much as she would
have done a month or two ago. She sleeps so much now, that she is
scarcely conscious of the lapse of time. I'll see that you come back
here again in a day or two."
So out of the silence and the soft melancholy of the Hall Molly
returned into the all-pervading element of chatter and gossip at
Hollingford. Mrs. Gibson received her kindly enough. Once she had a
smart new winter bonnet ready to give her as a present; but she did
not care to hear any particulars about the friends whom Molly had
just left; and her few remarks on the state of affairs at the Hall
jarred terribly on the sensitive Molly.
"What a time she lingers! Your papa never expected she would last
half so long after that attack. It must be very wearing work to them
all; I declare you look quite another creature since you were there.
One can only wish it mayn't last, for their sakes."
"You don't know how the Squire values every minute," said Molly.
"Why, you say she sleeps a great deal, and doesn't talk much when
she's awake, and there's not the slightest hope for her. And yet, at
such times, people are kept on the tenter-hooks with watching and
waiting. I know it by my dear Kirkpatrick. There really were days
when I thought it never would end. But we won't talk any more of such
dismal things; you've had quite enough of them, I'm sure, and it
always makes me melancholy to hear of illness and death; and yet your
papa seems sometimes as if he could talk of nothing else. I'm going
to take you out to-night, though, and that will give you something
of a change; and I've been getting Miss Rose to trim up one of my
old gowns for you; it's too tight for me. There's some talk of
dancing,--it's at Mrs. Edwards'."
"Oh, mamma, I cannot go!" cried Molly. "I've been so much with her;
and she may be suffering so, or even dying--and I to be dancing!"
"Nonsense! You're no relation, so you need not feel it so much. I
wouldn't urge you, if she was likely to know about it and be hurt;
but as it is, it's all fixed that you are to go; and don't let us
have any nonsense about it. We might sit twirling our thumbs, and
repeating hymns all our lives long, if we were to do nothing else
when people were dying."
"I cannot go," repeated Molly. And, acting upon impulse, and almost
to her own surprise, she appealed to her father, who came into the
room at this very time. He contracted his dark eyebrows, and looked
annoyed as both wife and daughter poured their different sides of the
argument into his ears. He sat down in desperation of patience. When
his turn came to pronounce a decision, he said,--
"I suppose I can have some lunch? I went away at six this morning,
and there's nothing in the dining-room. I have to go off again
directly."
Molly started to the door; Mrs. Gibson made haste to ring the bell.
"Where are you going, Molly?" said she, sharply.
"Only to see about papa's lunch."
"There are servants to do it; and I don't like your going into the
kitchen."
"Come, Molly! sit down and be quiet," said her father. "One comes
home wanting peace and quietness--and food too. If I am to be
appealed to, which I beg I may not be another time, I settle that
Molly stops at home this evening. I shall come back late and tired.
See that I have something ready to eat, goosey, and then I'll dress
myself up in my best, and go and fetch you home, my dear. I wish all
these wedding festivities were well over. Ready, is it? Then I'll go
into the dining-room and gorge myself. A doctor ought to be able to
eat like a camel, or like Major Dugald Dalgetty."
It was well for Molly that callers came in just at this time, for
Mrs. Gibson was extremely annoyed. They told her some little local
piece of news, however, which filled up her mind; and Molly found
that, if she only expressed wonder enough at the engagement they had
both heard of from the departed callers, the previous discussion as
to her accompanying her stepmother or not might be entirely passed
over. Not entirely though; for the next morning she had to listen to
a very brilliantly touched-up account of the dance and the gaiety
which she had missed; and also to be told that Mrs. Gibson had
changed her mind about giving her the gown, and thought now that
she should reserve it for Cynthia, if only it was long enough; but
Cynthia was so tall--quite overgrown, in fact. The chances seemed
equally balanced as to whether Molly might not have the gown after
all.