A CRISIS.
Illustrationrs. Kirkpatrick had been reading till Lady Cumnor asleep, the book rested on her knee, just from by her hold. She was looking out of the window, not the trees in the park, the of the beyond, but how it would be to have a husband once more;—some one who would work while she at her in a prettily-furnished drawing-room; and she was this with the and of the country surgeon, when there was a at the door, and almost she rise, the object of her came in. She herself blush, and she was not at the consciousness. She to meet him, making a her sleeping ladyship.
"Very good," said he, in a low voice, a professional on the figure; "can I speak to you for a minute or two in the library?"
"Is he going to offer?" she, with a palpitation, and a of her to accept a man an hour she had looked upon as one of the category of men to was possible.
He was only going to make one or two medical inquiries; she that out very speedily, and the as to her, though it might be to him. She was not aware that he up his mind to propose, the time that she was speaking—answering his questions in many words, but he was to the from the corn; and her voice was so soft, her so pleasant, that it him as particularly after the country he was hearing. Then the of her dress, and her slow and movements, had something of the same upon his nerves that a cat's has upon some people's. He to think that he should be if he win her, for his own sake. Yesterday he had looked upon her more as a possible for Molly; to-day he more of her as a wife for himself. The of Lord Cumnor's gave her a very consciousness; she to attract, and that she was succeeding. Still they only talked of the countess's for some time: then a lucky came on. Mr. Gibson did not a for rain, but just now it gave him an for lingering.
"It's very weather," said he.
"Yes, very. My me word, that for two days last week the packet not sail from Boulogne."
"Miss Kirkpatrick is at Boulogne, is she?"
"Yes, girl; she is at there, trying to perfect herself in the French language. But, Mr. Gibson, you must not call her Miss Kirkpatrick. Cynthia you with so much—affection, I may say. She was your little patient when she had the here four years ago, you know. Pray call her Cynthia; she would be at such a name as Miss Kirkpatrick from you."
"Cynthia to me such an out-of-the-way name, only fit for poetry, not for daily use."
"It is mine," said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a of reproach. "I was Hyacinth, and her father would have her called after me. I'm sorry you don't like it."
Mr. Gibson did not know what to say. He was not prepared to into the directly personal style. While he was hesitating, she on—
"Hyacinth Clare! Once upon a time I was proud of my name; and other people it pretty, too."
"I've no doubt—" Mr. Gibson began; and then stopped.
"Perhaps I did in to his wish, to have her called by such a name. It may against her in some people; and, child! she will have to with. A is a great charge, Mr. Gibson, when there is only one parent to look after her."
"You are right," said he, to the of Molly; "though I should have that a girl who is so as to have a mother not the of her father so as one who is must from her deprivation."
"You are of your own daughter. It was careless of me to say what I did. Dear child! how well I her sweet little as she sleeping on my bed. I she is nearly grown-up now. She must be near my Cynthia's age. How I should like to see her!"
"I you will. I should like you to see her. I should like you to love my little Molly,—to love her as your own—" He something that rose in his throat, and was nearly him.
"Is he going to offer? Is he?" she wondered; and she to in the he next spoke.
"Could you love her as your daughter? Will you try? Will you give me the right of you to her as her mother; as my wife?"
There! he had done it—whether it was wise or foolish—he had done it! but he was aware that the question as to its came into his mind the that the were said past recall.
She her in her hands.
"Oh! Mr. Gibson," she said; and then, a little to his surprise, and a great to her own, she into tears: it was such a to that she need not any more for a livelihood.
"My dear—my dearest," said he, trying to her with word and caress; but, just at the moment, what name he ought to use. After her had a little, she said herself, as if his difficulty,—
"Call me Hyacinth—your own Hyacinth. I can't 'Clare,' it so me of being a governess, and those days are all past now."
"Yes; but surely no one can have been more valued, more than you have been in this family at least."
"Oh, yes! they have been very good. But still one has always had to one's position."
"We ought to tell Lady Cumnor," said he, thinking, perhaps, more of the which him in of the step he had just taken, than of what his was saying.
"You'll tell her, won't you?" said she, looking up in his with eyes. "I always like other people to tell her things, and then I can see how she takes them."
"Certainly! I will do you wish. Shall we go and see if she is now?"
"No! I think not. I had prepare her. You will come to-morrow, won't you? and you will tell her then."
"Yes; that will be best. I ought to tell Molly first. She has the right to know. I do you and she will love each other dearly."
"Oh, yes! I'm sure we shall. Then you'll come to-morrow and tell Lady Cumnor? And I'll prepare her."
"I don't see what is necessary; but you know best, my dear. When can we for you and Molly to meet?"
Just then a came in, and the pair started apart.
"Her is awake, and to see Mr. Gibson."
They the man upstairs; Mrs. Kirkpatrick trying hard to look as if nothing had happened, for she particularly "to prepare" Lady Cumnor; that is to say, to give her of Mr. Gibson's urgency, and her own unwillingness.
But Lady Cumnor had in as well as in health. She had gone to sleep with the of the passage in her husband's full in her mind, and, perhaps, it gave a direction to her ideas.
"I'm you're not gone, Mr. Gibson. I wanted to tell you— What's the with you both? What have you been saying to Clare? I'm sure something has happened."
There was nothing for it, in Mr. Gibson's opinion, but to make a clean of it, and tell her all. He round, and took of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's hand, and said out straight, "I have been Mrs. Kirkpatrick to be my wife, and to be a mother to my child; and she has consented. I know how to thank her in words."
"Umph! I don't see any objection. I you'll be very happy. I'm very of it! Here! shake hands with me, of you." Then laughing a little, she added, "It not to me that any has been on my part."
Mr. Gibson looked at these words. Mrs. Kirkpatrick reddened.
"Did she not tell you? Oh, then, I must. It's too good a joke to be lost, as has ended so well. When Lord Cumnor's came this morning—this very morning—I gave it to Clare to read to me, and I saw she came to a full stop, where no full stop be, and I it was something about Agnes, so I took the and read—stay! I'll read the to you. Where's the letter, Clare? Oh! don't trouble yourself, here it is. 'How are Clare and Gibson on? You my to help on that affair, but I think a little match-making would be a very amusement, now that you are up in the house; and I cannot any marriage more suitable.' You see, you have my lord's full approbation. But I must write, and tell him you have managed your own without any of mine. Now we'll just have a little medical talk, Mr. Gibson, and then you and Clare shall your tête-à-tête."
They were neither of them as of together as they had been the passage out of Lord Cumnor's had been read aloud. Mr. Gibson not to think about it, for he was aware that if he upon it, he might to all of things, as to the which had ended in his offer. But Lady Cumnor was now, as always.
"Come, no nonsense. I always my girls go and have tête-à-têtes with the men who were to be their husbands, they would or no: there's a great to be talked over every marriage, and you two are old to be above affectation. Go away with you."
So there was nothing for it but for them to return to the library; Mrs. Kirkpatrick a little, and Mr. Gibson more like his own cool, self, by many degrees, than he had done when last in that room.
She began, crying,—
"I cannot tell what Kirkpatrick would say if he what I have done. He did so the of second marriages, fellow!"
"Let us that he doesn't know, then; or that, if he does, he is wiser—I mean, that he sees how second marriages may be most and in some cases."
Altogether, this second tête-à-tête, done to command, was not so satisfactory as the first; and Mr. Gibson was alive to the of on his to see his very much time had elapsed.
"We shall shake into long, I've no doubt," said he to himself, as he away. "It's to be that our should in the same all at once. Nor should I like it," he added. "It would be very and to have only an echo of one's own opinions from one's wife. Heigho! I must tell Molly about it: dear little woman, I wonder how she'll take it? It's done, in a great measure, for her good." And then he himself in Mrs. Kirkpatrick's good qualities, and the to be to his from the step he had just taken.
It was too late to go by Hamley that afternoon. The Towers and the Towers' just in the opposite direction to Hamley. So it was the next Mr. Gibson at the Hall, his visit as well as he so as to have half-an-hour's private talk with Molly Mrs. Hamley came into the drawing-room. He that his would after the he had to communicate; and he there was no one more fit to give it than Mrs. Hamley.
It was a summer's morning; men in their were in the in the early of oats; as Mr. Gibson slowly along, he see them over the tall hedge-rows, and the of the of the long swathes, as they were mown. The too to talk; the dog, their and cans, on the other of the elm, under which Mr. Gibson stopped for an to survey the scene, and a little the that he was well over. In another minute he had at himself for his weakness, and put to his horse. He came up to the Hall at a good trot; it was than the time of his visits, and no one was him; all the stable-men were in the fields, but that little to Mr. Gibson; he walked his about for five minutes or so taking him into the stable, and his girths, him with exactitude. He into the house by a private door, and his way into the drawing-room, expecting, however, that Molly would be in the garden. She had been there, but it was too and now for her to out of doors, and she had come in by the open window of the drawing-room. Oppressed with the heat, she had asleep in an easy-chair, her and open book upon her knee, one arm down. She looked very soft, and young, and childlike; and a of love into her father's as he at her.
"Molly!" said he, gently, taking the little hand that was down, and it in his own. "Molly!"
She opened her eyes, that for one moment had no in them. Then the light came into them and she up, and her arms his neck, exclaiming,—
"Oh, papa, my dear, dear papa! What you come while I was asleep? I the of for you."
Mr. Gibson a little than he had been before. He still her hand, and her to a seat by him on a sofa, without speaking. There was no need; she was away.
"I was up so early! It is so to be out here in the fresh air. I think that me sleepy. But isn't it a day? I wonder if the Italian they talk about can be than that—that little you see just the oaks—there!"
She her hand away, and used it and the other to turn her father's head, so that he should see the very she meant. She was by his silence.
"Have you from Miss Eyre, papa? How are they all? And this that is about? Do you know, papa, I don't think you are looking well? You want me at home to take of you. How soon may I come home?"
"Don't I look well? That must be all your fancy, goosey. I well; and I ought to look well, for— I have a piece of news for you, little woman." (He that he was doing his very awkwardly, but he was to on.) "Can you it?"
"How should I?" said she; but her was changed, and she was uneasy, as with the of an instinct.
"Why, you see, my love," said he, again taking her hand, "that you are in a very position—a girl up in such a family as mine—young men—which was a piece of on my part. And I am to be away so much."
"But there is Miss Eyre," said she, with the of what was to come. "Dear Miss Eyre, I want nothing but her and you."
"Still there are times like the present when Miss Eyre cannot be with you; her home is not with us; she has other duties. I've been in great for some time; but at last I've taken a step which will, I hope, make us happier."
"You're going to be married again," said she, helping him out, with a voice, and her hand out of his.
"Yes. To Mrs. Kirkpatrick—you her? They call her Clare at the Towers. You how she was to you that day you were left there?"
She did not answer. She not tell what to use. She was of saying anything, the of anger, dislike, indignation—whatever it was that was up in her breast—should in and screams, or worse, in that be forgotten. It was as if the piece of solid ground on which she had from the shore, and she was out to the sea alone.
Mr. Gibson saw that her was unnatural, and half-guessed at the of it. But he that she must have time to herself to the idea, and still that it would be for her happiness. He had, besides, the of that the was told, the made, which he had been for the last twenty-four hours. He on all the of the marriage; he them off by now.
"She's a very age for me. I don't know how old she is exactly, but she must be nearly forty. I shouldn't have to any one younger. She's by Lord and Lady Cumnor and their family, which is of itself a character. She has very and manners—of course, from the circles she has been into—and you and I, goosey, are to be a little brusque, or so; we must up our manners now."
No from her on this little of playfulness. He on,—
"She has been to housekeeping—economical housekeeping, too—for of late years she has had a at Ashcombe, and has had, of course, to all for a large family. And last, but not least, she has a daughter—about your age, Molly—who, of course, will come and live with us, and be a companion—a sister—for you."
Still she was silent. At length she said,—
"So I was sent out of the house that all this might be in my absence?"
Out of the of her she spoke, but she was out of her by the produced. Her father started up, and left the room, saying something to himself—what, she not hear, though she ran after him, him through dark passages, into the of the stable-yard, into the stables—
"Oh, papa, papa—I'm not myself—I don't know what to say about this hateful—detestable—"
He his out. She did not know if he her words. Just as he mounted, he upon her with a face—
"I think it's for of us, for me to go away now. We may say difficult to forget. We are much agitated. By to-morrow we shall be more composed; you will have it over, and have that the principal—one great motive, I mean—was your good. You may tell Mrs. Hamley—I meant to have told her myself. I will come again to-morrow. Good-by, Molly."
For many minutes after he had away—long after the of his horse's on the of the lane, the home-meadows, had died away—Molly there, her eyes, and looking at the empty space of air in which his had last appeared. Her very suspended; only, two or three times, after long intervals, she a sigh, which was up into a sob. She away at last, but not go into the house, not tell Mrs. Hamley, not how her father had looked and spoken—and left her.
She out through a side-door—it was the way by which the passed when they took the into the garden—and the walk to which it was from as much as possible by and and over-arching trees. No one would know what of her—and, with the of misery, she added to herself, no one would care. Mrs. Hamley had her own husband, her own children, her close home interests—she was very good and kind, but there was a in Molly's heart, with which the not intermeddle. She on to the which she had for herself—a seat almost by the of a weeping-ash—a seat on the long walk on the other of the wood, that the of the beyond. The walk had been to this sunny, peaceful landscape, with trees, and a church spire, two or three red-tiled of old cottages, and a of ground in the distance; and at some previous date, when there might have been a large family of Hamleys at the Hall, ladies in hoops, and in bag-wigs with by their sides, might have up the of the terrace, as they sauntered, smiling, along. But no one to there now. It was a walk. The or his sons might it in to a little gate that to the beyond; but no one there. Molly almost that no one of the seat under the ash-tree but herself; for there were not more upon the than were necessary to keep the kitchen-gardens and such of the part as was by the family, or in of the house, in good order.
When she had once got to the seat she out with of grief. She did not to the of her and sobs—her father was going to be married again—her father was angry with her; she had done very wrong—he had gone away displeased; she had his love; he was going to be married—away from her—away from his child—his little daughter—forgetting her own dear, dear mother. So she in a of way, till she was out, and had to by being for a time, to into her of afresh. She had herself on the ground—that natural for sorrow—and up against the old moss-grown seat; sometimes her in her hands; sometimes them together, as if by the tight painful of her she suffering.
She did not see Roger Hamley returning from the meadows, the of the little white gate. He had been out in and ditches, and had his wet sling-net, with its of nastiness, over his shoulder. He was home to lunch, having always a appetite, though he to the in theory. But he that his mother liked his then; she much upon her luncheon, and was and visible to her family much the time. So he his theory, for the of his mother, and had his in the with which he her company in eating.
He did not see Molly as he the terrace-walk on his way homewards. He had gone about twenty yards along the small wood-path at right to the terrace, when, looking among the and wild plants under the trees, he out one which was rare, one which he had been long to in flower, and saw it at last, with those of his. Down his net, so as to its contents, while it the herbage, and he himself with light and well-planted in search of the treasure. He was so great a lover of nature that, without any thought, but habitually, he always on any plant; who what long-sought or might itself in that which now appeared but insignificant?
His steps him in the direction of the ash-tree seat, much less screened from on this than on the terrace. He stopped; he saw a light-coloured dress on the ground—somebody half-lying on the seat, so still just then, he if the person, it was, had or fainted. He paused to watch. In a minute or two the out again—the words. It was Miss Gibson out in a voice,—
"Oh, papa, papa! if you would but come back!"
For a minute or two he it would be to her herself unobserved; he had a step or two, on tip-toe; but then he the again. It was than his mother walk, or else, be the what it would, she was the natural of this girl, her visitor. However, it was right or wrong, or obtrusive, when he the sad voice talking again, in such of uncomforted, misery, he back, and to the green under the ash-tree. She started up when he came thus close to her; she to check her sobs, and her wet with her hands.
He looked upon her with grave, sympathy, but he did not know what to say.
"Is it lunch-time?" said she, trying to that he did not see the of her and the of her features—that he had not her lying, her out there.
"I don't know. I was going home to lunch. But—you must let me say it—I couldn't go on when I saw your distress. Has anything happened?—anything in which I can help you, I mean; for, of course, I've no right to make the inquiry, if it is any private sorrow, in which I can be of no use."
She had herself so much with crying, that she as if she neither walk just yet. She on the seat, and sighed, and so pale, he she was going to faint.
"Wait a moment," said he,—quite unnecessarily, for she not have stirred,—and he was off like a to some of water that he of in the wood, and in a minute or two he returned with steps, a little in a green leaf, into an cup. Little as it was, it did her good.
"Thank you!" she said: "I can walk now, in a time. Don't stop."
"You must let me," said he: "my mother wouldn't like me to you to come home alone, while you are so faint."
So they in for a little while; he, off and one or two of the ash-tree, from the of his nature, to give her time to recover.
"Papa is going to be married again," said she, at length.
She not have said why she told him this; an she spoke, she had no of doing so. He the he in his hand, round, and looked at her. Her were with as they met his, with a for sympathy. Her look was much more than her words. There was a pause he replied, and then it was more he that he must say something than that he was in any as to the answer to the question he asked.
"You are sorry for it?"
She did not take her away from his, as her the word "Yes," though her voice no sound. He was again now; looking on the ground, kicking at a with his foot. His did not come to the surface in the shape of words; was he at till he saw his way clear to the from which must come. At last he spoke,—almost as if he was out the with himself.
"It as if there might be cases where—setting the question of love on one side—it must be almost a to some one to be a for the mother… I can believe," said he, in a different of voice, and looking at Molly afresh, "that this step may be for your father's happiness—it may him from many cares, and may give him a companion."
"He had me. You don't know what we were to each other—at least, what he was to me," she added, humbly.
"Still he must have it for the best, or he wouldn't have done it. He may have it the best for your more than for his own."
"That is what he to me of."
Roger kicking the again. He had not got of the right end of the clue. Suddenly he looked up.
"I want to tell you of a girl I know. Her mother died when she was about sixteen—the of a large family. From that time—all through the of her youth—she gave herself up to her father, as his comforter, as his companion, friend, secretary—anything you like. He was a man with a great of on hand, and often came home only to set to to for the next day's work. Harriet was always there, to help, to talk, or to be silent. It on for eight or ten years in this way; and then her father married again,—a woman not many years older than Harriet herself. Well—they are just the set of people I know—you wouldn't have it likely, would you?"
She was listening, but she had no to say anything. Yet she was in this little of Harriet—a girl who had been so much to her father, more than Molly in this early of hers have been to Mr. Gibson. "How was it?" she out at last.
"Harriet of her father's she of her own," Roger answered, with something of brevity. Molly needed the bracing. She to again a little.
"If it were for papa's happiness—"
"He must that it is. Whatever you fancy, give him a chance. He cannot have much comfort, I should think, if he sees you or pining,—you who have been so much to him, as you say. The lady herself, too—if Harriet's had been a selfish woman, and been always after the of her own wishes; but she was not: she was as for Harriet to be happy as Harriet was for her father—and your father's wife may be another of the same kind, though such people are rare."
"I don't think she is, though," Molly, a of to her mind the of her day at the Towers long ago.
Roger did not want to Molly's for this speech. He as if he had no right to more of Mr. Gibson's family life, past, present, or to come, than was necessary for him, in order that he might and help the girl, he had come upon so unexpectedly. And besides, he wanted to go home, and be with his mother at lunch-time. Yet he not her alone.
"It is right to for the best about everybody, and not to the worst. This like a truism, but it has me now, and some day you'll it useful. One has always to try to think more of others than of oneself, and it is best not to people on the side. My aren't long, are they? Have they you an for lunch? Sermons always make me hungry, I know."
He appeared to be waiting for her to up and come along with him, as he was. But he meant her to that he should not her; so she rose up languidly, too to say how much she should being left alone, if he would only go away without her. She was very weak, and over the of a tree that across the path. He, though silent, saw this stumble, and out his hand her up from falling. He still her hand when the occasion was past; this little physical failure on his how and she was, and he to her, the of in which he had her, and to be of some little of to her, they parted—before their tête-à-tête walk was in the of the life. Yet he did not know what to say.
"You will have me hard," he out at length, as they were the drawing-room and the garden-door. "I can manage to what I feel—somehow I always to philosophizing—but I am sorry for you. Yes, I am; it's my power to help you, as as goes, but I can for you, in a way which it's best not to talk about, for it can do no good. Remember how sorry I am for you! I shall often be of you, though I it's best not to talk about it again."
She said, "I know you are sorry," under her breath, and then she away, and ran indoors, and to the of her own room. He to his mother, who was the luncheon, as much by the of her visitor as she was of being with anything; for she had that Mr. Gibson had been, and was gone, and she not if he had left any message for her; and her about her own health, which some people hypochondriacal, always her particularly for the which might from her doctor's lips.
"Where have you been, Roger? Where is Molly?—Miss Gibson, I mean," for she was to keep up a of the man and woman who were together in the same household.
"I've been out dredging. (By the way, I left my on the walk.) I Miss Gibson there, as if her would break. Her father is going to be married again."
"Married again! You don't say so."
"Yes, he is; and she takes it very hardly, girl. Mother, I think if you send some one to her with a of wine, a cup of tea, or something of that sort—she was very nearly fainting—"
"I'll go to her myself, child," said Mrs. Hamley, rising.
"Indeed you must not," said he, his hand upon her arm. "We have you waiting already too long; you are looking pale. Hammond can take it," he continued, the bell. She again, almost with surprise.
"Whom is he going to marry?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask, and she didn't tell me."
"That's so like a man. Why, the of the in the question of who it is that he is going to marry."
"I I ought to have asked. But somehow I'm not a good one on such occasions. I was as sorry as be for her, and yet I couldn't tell what to say."
"What did you say?"
"I gave her the best in my power."
"Advice! you ought to have her. Poor little Molly!"
"I think that if is good it's the best comfort."
"That on what you by advice. Hush! here she is."
To their surprise, Molly came in, trying hard to look as usual. She had her eyes, and her hair; and was making a great to keep from crying, and to her voice into order. She was to Mrs. Hamley by the of pain and suffering. She did not know that she was Roger's to think more of others than of herself—but so she was. Mrs. Hamley was not sure if it was wise in her to on the piece of news she had just from her son; but she was too full of it herself to talk of anything else. "So I your father is going to be married, my dear? May I ask it is to?"
"Mrs. Kirkpatrick. I think she was a long time ago at the Countess of Cumnor's. She with them a great deal, and they call her Clare, and I they are very of her." Molly to speak of her in the most manner she how.
"I think I've of her. Then she's not very young? That's as it should be. A too. Has she any family?"
"One girl, I believe. But I know so little about her!"
Molly was very near again.
"Never mind, my dear. That will all come in good time. Roger, you've anything; where are you going?"
"To my dredging-net. It's full of I don't want to lose. Besides, I eat much, as a thing." The truth was told, not all. He he had the other two alone. His mother had such sweet power of sympathy, that she would the out of the girl's when she had her alone. As soon as he was gone, Molly up her eyes, and, looking at Mrs. Hamley, she said,—"He was so good to me. I to try and all he said."
"I'm to it, love; very glad. From what he told me, I was he had been you a little lecture. He has a good heart, but he isn't so in his manner as Osborne. Roger is a little sometimes."
"Then I like roughness. It did me good. It me how badly—oh, Mrs. Hamley, I did so to papa this morning!"
She rose up and herself into Mrs. Hamley's arms, and upon her breast. Her was not now for the that her father was going to be married again, but for her own ill-behaviour.
If Roger was not in words, he was in deeds. Unreasonable and possibly as Molly's had appeared to him, it was to her; and he took some pains to it, in his own way, which was enough. That he his microscope, and put the he had in his morning's on a little table; and then he asked his mother to come and admire. Of Molly came too, and this was what he had intended. He to her in his pursuit, her little of curiosity, and nursed it into a very proper for information. Then he out books on the subject, and the and language into every-day speech. Molly had come to dinner, how the long hours till would pass away: hours which she must not speak on the one thing that would be her mind to the of all others; for she was that already she had Mrs. Hamley with it their tête-à-tête. But prayers and came long she expected; she had been by a new of thought, and she was very to Roger. And now there was to-morrow to come, and a of to be to her father.
But Mr. Gibson did not want speech or words. He was not of of at any time, and perhaps, too, he that the less said the on a about which it was that his and he were not and in harmony. He read her in her eyes; he saw how much she had suffered; and he had a at his in consequence. And he stopped her from speaking out her at her the day before, by a "There, there, that will do. I know all you want to say. I know my little Molly—my little goosey—better than she herself. I've you an invitation. Lady Cumnor wants you to go and next Thursday at the Towers!"
"Do you wish me to go?" said she, her sinking.
"I wish you and Hyacinth to acquainted—to learn to love each other."
"Hyacinth!" said Molly, bewildered.
"Yes; Hyacinth! It's the name I of; but it's hers, and I must call her by it. I can't Clare, which is what my lady and all the family at the Towers call her; and 'Mrs. Kirkpatrick' is and too, as she'll her name so soon."
"When, papa?" asked Molly, as if she were in a strange, unknown world.
"Not till after Michaelmas." And then, on his own thoughts, he added, "And the is, she's gone and her own name by having her called after her. Cynthia! One thinks of the moon, and the man in the moon with his of faggots. I'm you're plain Molly, child."
"How old is she—Cynthia, I mean?"
"Ay, to the name. I should think Cynthia Kirkpatrick was about as old as you are. She's at in France, up and graces. She's to come home for the wedding, so you'll be able to with her then; though, I think, she's to go again for another half-year or so."
