Wives and Daughters (93 page)

‘He will not be long away,’ thought Molly, ‘or he would have left word where he was going. But oh! the poor father all alone!’ And then a thought came into her head, which she acted upon straight. ‘Go to James, tell him to put the side-saddle I had in November on Nora Creina. Don’t cry, Jenny. There is no time for that. No one is angry with you. Run!’

So down into the cluster of collected women Molly came, equipped in her jacket and skirt; quick determination in her eyes; controlled quivering about the corners of her mouth.

‘Why, what in the world’—said Mrs. Gibson—‘Molly, what are you thinking about?’ But Cynthia had understood it at a glance, and was arranging Molly’s hastily assumed dress, as she passed along.

‘I am going. I must go. I cannot bear to think of him alone. When papa comes back he is sure to go to Hamley, and if I am not wanted, I can come back with him.’ She heard Mrs. Gibson’s voice following her in remonstrance, but she did not stay for words. She had to wait in the stable-yard, and she wondered how the messenger could bear to eat and drink the food and beer brought out to him by the servants. Her coming out had evidently interrupted the eager talk,—the questions and answers passing sharp to and fro; but she caught the words, ‘all amongst the tangled grass,’ and ‘the squire would let none on us touch him; he took him up as if he was a baby; he had to rest many a time, and once he sat him down on the ground; but still he kept him in his arms; but we thought we should ne’er have gotten him up again—him and the body.’

‘The body!’

Molly had never felt that Osborne was really dead till she heard these words. They rode quick under the shadows of the hedgerow trees, but when they slackened speed, to go up a brow, or to give their horses breath, Molly heard these two little words again in her ears; and said them over again to herself, in hopes of forcing the sharp truth into her unwilling sense. But when they came in sight of the square stillness of the house, shining in the moonlight—the moon had risen by this time—Molly caught at her breath, and for an instant she thought she never could go in, and face the presence in that dwelling. One yellow light burnt steadily, spotting the silver shining with its earthly coarseness. The man pointed it out; it was almost the first word he had spoken since they had left Hollingford.

‘It’s the old nursery. They carried him there. The squire broke down at the stair-foot and they took him to the readiest place. I’ll be bound for it the squire is there hisself, and old Robin too. They fetched him, as a knowledgeable man among dumb beasts, till th’ regular doctor came.’

Molly dropped down from her seat before the man could dismount to help her. She gathered up her skirts and did not stay again to think of what was before her. She ran along the once familiar turns, and swiftly up the stairs, and through the doors, till she came to the last; then she stopped and listened. It was a deathly silence. She opened the door:—the squire was sitting alone at the side of the bed, holding the dead man’s hand, and looking straight before him at vacancy He did not stir or move, even so much as an eyelid, at Molly’s entrance. The truth had entered his soul before this, and he knew that no doctor, be he ever so cunning, could, with all his striving, put the breath into that body again. Molly came up to him with the softest steps, the most hushed breath that ever she could. She did not speak, for she did not know what to say. She felt that he had no more hope from earthly skill, so what was the use of speaking of her father and the delay in his coming? After a moment’s pause, standing by the old man’s side, she slipped down to the floor, and sat at his feet. Possibly her presence might have some balm in it; but uttering of words was as a vain thing. He must have been aware of her being there, but he took no apparent notice. There they sat, silent and still, he in his chair, she on the floor; the dead man, beneath the sheet, for a third. She fancied that she must have disturbed the father in his contemplation of the quiet face, now more than half, but not fully, covered up out of sight. Time had never seemed so without measure, silence had never seemed so noiseless as it did to Molly, sitting there. In the acuteness of her senses she heard a step mounting a distant staircase, coming slowly, coming nearer. She knew it not to be her father’s, and that was all she cared about. Nearer and nearer—close to the outside of the door—a pause, and a soft, hesitating tap. The great gaunt figure sitting by her side quivered at the sound. Molly rose and went to the door: it was Robinson, the old butler, holding in his hand a covered basin of soup.

‘God bless you, miss,’ said he; ‘make him touch a drop o’ this: he’s gone since breakfast without food, and it’s past one in the morning now.’

He softly removed the cover, and Molly took the basin back with her to her place at the squire’s side. She did not speak, for she did not well know what to say, or how to present this homely want of nature before one so rapt in grief. But she put a spoonful to his lips, and touched them with the savoury food, as if he had been a sick child, and she the nurse; and instinctively he took down the first spoonful of the soup. But in a minute he said, with a sort of cry, and almost overturning the basin Molly held, by his passionate gesture as he pointed to the bed,—

‘He will never eat again—never.’

Then he threw himself across the corpse, and wept in such a terrible manner that Molly trembled lest he also should die—should break his heart there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of her tears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon looking through the unclosed window, with passionless stare. Her father stood by them both before either of them was aware.

‘Go downstairs, Molly,’ said he, gravely; but he stroked her head tenderly as she rose. ‘Go into the dining-room.’ Now she felt the reaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear as she went along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she should meet Osborne, and hear it all explained; how he came to die—what he now felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to the dining-room-the last few steps with a rush of terror—senseless terror of what might be behind her; and there she found supper laid out, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about, decanting some wine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet place, and weep away her over-excitement; but she could hardly do so there. She only felt very much tired, and to care for nothing in this world any more. But vividness of life came back when she found Robinson holding a glass to her lips as she sat in the great leather easy-chair, to which she had gone instinctively as to a place of rest.

‘Drink, miss. It’s good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was to eat a bit. Says he, “My daughter may have to stay here, Mr. Robinson, and she’s young for the work. Persuade her to eat something, or she’ll break down utterly.” Those was his very words.’

Molly did not say anything. She had not energy enough for resistance. She drank and she ate at the old servant’s bidding; and then she asked him to leave her alone, and went back to her easy-chair, and let herself cry, and so ease her heart.

I
t seemed very long before Mr. Gibson came down. He went and stood with his back to the empty fire-place, and did not speak for a minute or two.

‘He’s gone to bed,’ said he at length. ‘Robinson and I have got him there. But just as I was leaving him he called me back, and asked me to let you stop. I’m sure I don’t know—but one doesn’t like to refuse at such a time.’

‘I wish to stay,’ said Molly.

‘Do you? There’s a good girl. But how will you manage?’

‘Oh, never mind that. I can manage. Papa’—she paused—‘what did Osborne die of?’ She asked the question in a low, awe-stricken voice.

‘Something wrong about the heart. You wouldn’t understand if I told you. I apprehended it for some time; but it’s better not to talk of such things at home. When I saw him on Thursday week, he seemed better than I’ve seen him for a long time. I told Dr. Nicholls so. But one never can calculate in these complaints.’

‘You saw him on Thursday week? Why, you never mentioned it!’ said Molly.

‘No. I don’t talk of my patients at home. Besides, I didn’t want him to consider me as his doctor, but as a friend. Any alarm about his own health would only have hastened the catastrophe.’

‘Then didn’t he know that he was ill—ill of a dangerous complaint, I mean: one that might end as it has done?’

‘No; certainly not. He would only have been watching his symptoms—accelerating matters, in fact.’

‘Oh, papa!’ said Molly, shocked.

‘I’ve no time to go into the question,’ Mr. Gibson continued. ‘And until you know what has to be said on both sides, and in every instance, you are not qualified to judge. We must keep our attention on the duties in hand now. You sleep here for the remainder of the night, which is more than half gone already?’

‘Yes.’

‘Promise me to go to bed just as usual. You may not think it, but most likely you’ll go to sleep at once. People do at your age.’

‘Papa, I think I ought to tell you something. I know a great secret of Osborne’s, which I promised solemnly not to tell; but the last time I saw him I think he must have been afraid of something like this.’ A fit of sobbing came upon her, which her father was afraid would end in hysterics. But suddenly she mastered herself, and looked up into his anxious face, and smiled to reassure him.

‘I could not help it, papa!’

‘No. I know. Go on with what you were saying. You ought to be in bed; but if you’ve a secret on your mind you won’t sleep.’

‘Osborne was married,’ said she, fixing her eyes on her father. ‘That is the secret.’

‘Married! Nonsense. What makes you think so?’

‘He told me. That’s to say, I was in the library—was reading there, some time ago; and Roger came and spoke to Osborne about his wife. Roger did not see me, but Osborne did. They made me promise secrecy. I don’t think I did wrong.’

‘Don’t worry yourself about right or wrong just now; tell me more about it, at once.’

‘I knew no more till six months ago—last November, when you went up to Lady Cumnor. Then he called, and gave me his wife’s address, but still under promise of secrecy; and, excepting those two times, I have never heard any one mention the subject. I think he would have told me more that last time, only Miss Phoebe came in.’

‘Where is this wife of his?’

‘Down in the south; near Winchester, I think. He said she was a Frenchwoman and a Roman Catholic; and I think he said she was a servant,’ added Molly.

‘Phew!’ Her father made a long whistle of dismay.

‘And,’ continued Molly, ‘he spoke of a child. Now you know as much as I do, papa, except the address. I have it written down safe at home.’

Forgetting, apparently, what time of night it was, Mr. Gibson sat down, stretched out his legs before him, put his hands in his pockets, and began to think. Molly sat still without speaking, too tired to do more than wait.

‘Well!’ said he at last, jumping up, ‘nothing can be done to-night; by to-morrow morning, perhaps, I may find out. Poor little pale face!’—taking it between both his hands and kissing it; ‘poor, sweet, little pale face!’ Then he rang the bell, and told Robinson to send some maid-servant to take Miss Gibson to her room.

‘He won’t be up early,’ said he, in parting. ‘The shock has lowered him too much to be energetic. Send breakfast up to him in his own room. I’ll be here again before ten.’

Late as it was before he left, he kept his word.

‘Now, Molly,’ he said, ‘you and I must tell him the truth between us. I don’t know how he will take it; it may comfort him, but I have very little hope: either way, he ought to know it at once.’

‘Robinson says he has gone into the room again, and he is afraid he has locked the door on the inside.’

‘Never mind. I shall ring the bell, and send up Robinson to say that I am here, and wish to speak to him.’

The message returned was, ‘The squire’s kind love, and could not see Mr. Gibson just then.’ Robinson added, ‘It was a long time before he’d answer at all, sir.’

‘Go up again, and tell him I can wait his convenience. Now that’s a lie,’ Mr. Gibson said, turning round to Molly as soon as Robinson had left the room. ‘I ought to be far enough away at twelve; but, if I’m not much mistaken, the innate habits of a gentleman will make him uneasy at the idea of keeping me waiting his pleasure, and will do more to bring him out of that room into this than any entreaties or reasoning.’ Mr. Gibson was growing impatient, though, before they heard the squire’s footstep on the stairs; he was evidently coming, slowly and unwillingly. He came in almost like one blind, groping along, and taking hold of chair or table for support or guidance till he reached Mr. Gibson. He did not speak when he held the doctor by the hand; he only hung down his head, and kept on a feeble shaking of welcome.

‘I’m brought very low, sir. I suppose it’s God’s doings; but it comes hard upon me. He was my firstborn child.’ He said this almost as if speaking to a stranger, and informing him of facts of which he was ignorant.

‘Here’s Molly,’ said Mr. Gibson, choking a little himself, and pushing her forwards.

‘I beg your pardon; I did not see you at first. My mind is a good deal occupied just now.’ He sat heavily down, and then seemed almost to forget they were there. Molly wondered what was to come next. Suddenly her father spoke—

‘Where’s Roger?’ said he. ‘Is he not likely to be soon at the Cape?’
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He got up and looked at the directions of one or two unopened letters brought by that morning’s post; among them was one in Cynthia’s handwriting. Both Molly and he saw it at the same time. How long it was since yesterday! But the squire took no notice of their proceedings or their looks.

‘You will be glad to have Roger at home as soon as may be, I think, sir. Some months must elapse first; but I’m sure he will return as speedily as possible.’