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 Mr. Preston 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 Hollingford Charity Ball. I couldn't bring
myself to use the dirty fly from the 'George.' 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 daresay 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 the
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 sate 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, almost 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 daresay
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, 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 woefully 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 daresay the Squire will for him; but
then the young fellow himself is not the 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, 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 him,
and desire to win his good opinion, made her curb herself before him;
and in this manner she earned his 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 bees
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, just before 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,
which 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-by, 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
gentleman he is! How agreeable and polite! So different from that
forward Mr. Preston," she continued, looking a little anxiously 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 daresay 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 were 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's in body or mind. Which is it, Molly?"
"He is not strong, I know; but he's 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."