MR. OSBORNE'S SECRET.
Illustrationsborne and Roger came to the Hall; Molly Roger there when she returned after this at home. She that Osborne was coming; but very little was said about him in any way. The Squire left his wife's room; he sat by her, her, and now and then to himself. She was so much under the of that she did not often up; but when she did, she almost asked for Molly. On these occasions, she would ask after Osborne—where he was, if he had been told, and if he was coming? In her and of she to have two impressions—one, of the with which Molly had her about Osborne; the other, of the anger which her husband against him. Before the she mentioned Osborne's name; did she at her in speaking about him to Roger; while, when she was alone with Molly, she spoke of any one else. She must have had some of idea that Roger his brother, while she Molly's defence, which she had at the time. At any rate, she Molly her about her first-born. She sent her to ask Roger how soon he would come, for she to know perfectly well that he was coming.
"Tell me all Roger says. He will tell you."
But it was days Molly ask Roger any questions; and meanwhile Mrs. Hamley's had altered. At length Molly came upon Roger in the library, his in his hands. He did not her till she was close him. Then he up his face, red, and with tears, his all up and in disorder.
"I've been wanting to see you alone," she began. "Your mother so want some news of your Osborne. She told me last week to ask you about him, but I did not like to speak of him your father."
"She has named him to me."
"I don't know why; for to me she used to talk of him perpetually. I have so little of her this week, and I think she a great now. Still, if you don't mind, I should like to be able to tell her something if she me again."
He put his again his hands, and did not answer her for some time.
"What she want to know?" said he, at last. "Does she know that Osborne is soon—any day?"
"Yes. But she wants to know where he is."
"I can't tell you. I don't know. I he's abroad, but I'm not sure."
"But you've sent papa's to him?"
"I've sent it to a friend of his who will know than I do where he's to be found. You must know that he isn't free from creditors, Molly. You can't have been one of the family, like a child of the house almost, without that much. For that and for other I don't know where he is."
"I will tell her so. You are sure he will come?"
"Quite sure. But, Molly, I think my mother may live some time yet; don't you? Dr. Nicholls said so yesterday when he was here with your father. He said she had more than he had expected. You're not of any that makes you so for Osborne's coming?"
"No. It's only for her that I asked. She did so to for news of him. I think she of him; and then when she it was a to her to talk about him to me. She always to me with him. We used to speak so much of him when we were together."
"I don't know what we should any of us have done without you. You've been like a to my mother."
"I do so love her," said Molly, softly.
"Yes; I see. Have you noticed that she sometimes calls you 'Fanny?' It was the name of a little sister of ours who died. I think she often takes you for her. It was that, and that at such a time as this one can't on formalities, that me call you Molly. I you don't mind it?"
"No; I like it. But will you tell me something more about your brother? She for news of him."
"She'd ask me herself. Yet, no! I am so by promises of secrecy, Molly, that I couldn't satisfy her if she once to question me. I he's in Belgium, and that he there about a ago, to avoid his creditors. You know my father has to pay his debts?"
"Yes: at least, I something like it."
"I don't my father the money all at once without having to steps which he would from. Yet for the time it places Osborne in a very position."
"I think what your father a good is some as to how the money was spent."
"If my mother says anything about that part of the affair," said Roger, hastily, "assure her from me that there's nothing of or wrong-doing about it. I can't say more: I'm tied. But set her mind at on that point."
"I'm not sure if she all her painful about this," said Molly. "She used to speak a great to me about him you came, when your father so angry. And now, she sees me she wants to talk on the old subject; but she doesn't so clearly. If she were to see him, I don't she would why she was about him while he was absent."
"He must be here soon. I him every day," said Roger, uneasily.
"Do you think your father will be very angry with him?" asked Molly, with as much as if the squire's might be against her.
"I don't know," said Roger. "My mother's may him; but he didn't easily us formerly. I once—but that is nothing to the purpose. I can't help that he has put himself under some for my mother's sake, and that he won't much. But it doesn't that he will it. My father is a man of affections, but what he has are very strong; he anything that touches him on these points and permanently. That unlucky of the property! It has my father the idea of post-obits—"
"What are they?" asked Molly.
"Raising money to be paid on my father's death, which, of course, calculations as to the of his life."
"How shocking!" said she.
"I'm as sure as I am of my own life that Osborne did anything of the kind. But my father his in language that Osborne; and he doesn't speak out, and won't himself as much as he might; and, much as he loves me, I've but little over him, or else he would tell my father all. Well, we must it to time," he added, sighing. "My mother would have us all right, if she'd been what she once was."
He away, Molly very sad. She that every of the family she for so much was in trouble, out of which she saw no exit; and her small power of helping them was day by day as Mrs. Hamley more and more under the of and illness. Her father had spoken to her only this very day of the of her returning home for good. Mrs. Gibson wanted her—for no particular reason, but for many small of reasons. Mrs. Hamley had to want her much, only occasionally appearing to her existence. Her position (her father thought—the idea had not entered her head) in a family of which the only woman was an to bed, was awkward. But Molly had hard to two or three days longer—only that—only till Friday. If Mrs. Hamley should want her (she argued, with in her eyes), and should that she had left the house, she would think her so unkind, so ungrateful!
"My dear child, she's past wanting any one! The of is deadened."
"Papa, that is of all. I cannot it. I won't it. She may not ask for me again, and may me; but I'm sure, to the very last, if the don't her, she will look for the and her children. For Osborne most of all; he's in sorrow."
Mr. Gibson his head, but said nothing in reply. In a minute or two he asked,—
"I don't like to take you away while you you can be of use or to one who has been so to you; but, if she hasn't wanted you Friday, will you be convinced, will you come home willingly?"
"If I go then, I may see her once again, if she hasn't asked for me?" Molly.
"Yes, of course. You must make no noise, no step; but you may go in and see her. I must tell you, I'm almost she won't ask for you."
"But she may, papa. I will go home on Friday, if she not. I think she will."
So Molly about the house, trying to do all she out of the sick-room, for the of those in it. They only came out for meals, or for necessary business, and little time for talking to her, so her life was enough, waiting for the call that came. The of the day on which she had had the above with Roger, Osborne arrived. He came into the drawing-room, where Molly was seated on the rug, reading by firelight, as she did not like to ring for for her own use. Osborne came in, with a of hurry, which almost him appear as if he would himself up, and down. Molly rose. He had not noticed her before; now he came forwards, and took of her hands, leading her into the full light, and his to look into her face.
"How is she? You will tell me—you must know the truth! I've day and night since I got your father's letter."
Before she her answer, he had in the nearest chair, his with his hand.
"She's very ill," said Molly. "That you know; but I don't think she much pain. She has wanted you sadly."
He aloud. "My father me to come."
"I know!" said Molly, to prevent his self-reproach. "Your was away, too. I think no one how she was—she had been an for so long."
"You know— Yes! she told you a great deal—she was very of you. And God how I loved her. If I had not been to come home, I should have told her all. Does my father know of my now?"
"Yes," said Molly; "I told him papa had sent for you."
Just at that moment the Squire came in. He had not of Osborne's arrival, and was Molly to ask her to a for him.
Osborne did not up when his father entered. He was too much exhausted, too much by his feelings, and also too much by his father's angry, letters. If he had come with any of at this moment, might have been different. But he waited for his father to see him he a word. All that the Squire said when his upon him at last was,—
"You here, sir!"
And, off in the he was to Molly, he left the room. All the time his was after his first-born; but them asunder. Yet he to the butler, and asked of him when Mr. Osborne had arrived, and how he had come, and if he had had any refreshment—dinner or what—since his arrival?
"For I think I now!" said the Squire, his hand up to his head. "For the life of me, I can't we've had dinner or not; these long nights, and all this and watching, me."
"Perhaps, sir, you will take some dinner with Mr. Osborne. Mrs. Morgan is sending up his directly. You at dinner-time, sir, you my wanted something."
"Ay! I now. No! I won't have any more. Give Mr. Osborne what he chooses. Perhaps he can eat and drink." So the Squire away with as well as in his heart.
When lights were brought, Molly was with the in Osborne. He looked and worn; with and anxiety. Not such a either, as Molly had him, when she had last him calling on her stepmother, two months before. But she liked him now. The of his pleased her more. He was simpler, and less of his feelings. He asked after Roger in a warm, of way. Roger was out: he had to Ashcombe to some for the Squire. Osborne for his return; and about in the drawing-room after he had dined.
"You're sure I mayn't see her to-night?" he asked Molly, for the third or fourth time.
"No, indeed. I will go up again if you like it. But Mrs. Jones, the nurse Dr. Nicholls sent, is a very person. I up while you were at dinner, and Mrs. Hamley had just taken her drops, and was on no account to be by any one, much less by any excitement."
Osborne walking up and the long drawing-room, talking to himself, to Molly.
"I wish Roger would come. He to be the only one to give me a welcome. Does my father always live in my mother's rooms, Miss Gibson?"
"He has done since her last attack. I he himself for not having been before."
"You all the he said to me; they were not much of a welcome, were they? And my dear mother, who always—whether I was to or not—I Roger is sure to come home to-night?"
"Quite sure."
"You are here, are you not? Do you often see my mother, or this nurse keep you out too?"
"Mrs. Hamley hasn't asked for me for three days now, and I don't go into her room unless she asks. I'm on Friday, I believe."
"My mother was very of you, I know."
After a while he said, in a voice that had a great of pain in its tone,—
"I suppose—do you know she is conscious—quite herself?"
"Not always conscious," said Molly, tenderly. "She has to take so many opiates. But she wanders, only forgets, and sleeps."
"Oh, mother, mother!" said he, stopping suddenly, and over the fire, his hands on the chimney-piece.
When Roger came home, Molly it time to retire. Poor girl! it was to be time for her to this of in which she be of no use. She herself to sleep this Tuesday night. Two days more, and it would be Friday; and she would have to up the she had into this ground. The weather was the next morning; and and sunny weather up hearts. Molly in the dining-room making tea for the as they came down. She not help that the Squire and Osborne might come to a she left; for after all, in the father and son, a than in the sent by God. But though they met at the breakfast-table, they each other. Perhaps the natural of the two, at such a time, would have been Osborne's long the night before; but he had spoken of the place he had come from, north, south, east, or west, and the Squire did not choose to to anything that might out what his son to conceal. Again, there was an idea in their minds that Mrs. Hamley's present was much aggravated, if not on, by the of Osborne's debts; so, many and on that were tabooed. In fact, their at easy were limited to local subjects, and to Molly or Roger. Such was not of pleasure, or of feeling, though there was a thin surface of and peace. Long the day was over, Molly that she had to her father's proposal, and gone home with him. No one to want her. Mrs. Jones, the nurse, her time after time that Mrs. Hamley had named her name; and her small services in the sick-room were not since there was a regular nurse. Osborne and Roger all in all to each other; and Molly now how much the she had had with Roger had to give her something to think about, all the of her days. Osborne was polite, and his to her for her to his mother in a very manner; but he appeared to be to her any of the of his heart, and almost of his of the night before. He spoke to her as any man speaks to any lady; but Molly almost this. It was only the Squire who to make her of any account. He gave her to write, small to up; and she have his hands for thankfulness.
The last of her at the Hall came. Roger had gone out on the Squire's business. Molly into the garden, over the last summer, when Mrs. Hamley's sofa used to be under the old cedar-tree on the lawn, and when the warm air to be with roses and sweetbriar. Now, the trees leafless, there was no sweet in the air; and looking up at the house, there were the white of blinds, out the winter sky from the invalid's room. Then she of the day her father had her the news of his second marriage: the was with and and hoar-frost; and the of and and were all in against the sky. Could she be so again? Was it goodness, or was it numbness, that her as though life was too to be much about anything? Death the only reality. She had neither energy to walk or briskly; and the house. The sun was on the windows; and, up to activity by some unknown cause, the had opened the and of the library. The middle window was also a door; the white-painted up. Molly along the little flag-paved path that past the library to the gate in the white at the of the house, and in at the opened door. She had had to choose out any books she to read, and to take them home with her; and it was just the of half-dawdling to her taste this afternoon. She on the to to a particular high up in a dark of the room; and there some that looked interesting, she sat on the step to read part of it. There she sat, in her and cloak, when Osborne came in. He did not see her at first; indeed, he in such a that he might not have noticed her at all, if she had not spoken.
"Am I in your way? I only came here for a minute to look for some books." She came the steps as she spoke, still the book in her hand.
"Not at all. It is I who am you. I must just a for the post, and then I shall be gone. Is not this open door too cold for you?"
"Oh, no. It is so fresh and pleasant."
She to read again, on the step of the ladder; he to at the large old-fashioned writing-table close to the window. There was a minute or two of silence, in which the of Osborne's pen upon the paper was the only sound. Then came a of the gate, and Roger at the open door. His was Osborne, in the light; his to Molly, up in her corner. He out a letter, and said in breathlessness—
"Here's a from your wife, Osborne. I past the post-office and thought—"
Osborne up, angry upon his face:—
"Roger! what have you done! Don't you see her?"
Roger looked round, and Molly up in her corner, red, trembling, miserable, as though she were a person. Roger entered the room. All three to be dismayed. Molly was the to speak; she came and said—
"I am so sorry! I didn't wish to it, but I couldn't help it. You will trust me, won't you?" and to Roger she said to him with in her eyes—"Please say you know I shall not tell."
"We can't help it," said Osborne, gloomily. "Only Roger, who of what it was, ought to have looked him speaking."
"So I should," said Roger. "I'm more with myself than you can conceive. Not but what I'm as sure of you as of myself," he, to Molly.
"Yes; but," said Osborne, "you see how many there are that the best-meaning may let out what it is of such to me to keep secret."
"I know you think it so," said Roger.
"Well, don't let us that old again—at any rate, a third person."
Molly had had hard work all this time to keep from crying. Now that she was to as the third person was to be restrained, she said—
"I'm going away. Perhaps I ought not to have been here. I'm very sorry—very. But I'll try and what I've heard."
"You can't do that," said Osborne, still ungraciously. "But will you promise me to speak about it to any one—not to me, or to Roger? Will you try to act and speak as if you had it? I'm sure, from what Roger has told me about you, that if you give me this promise I may upon it."
"Yes; I will promise," said Molly, out her hand as a of pledge. Osborne took it, but as if the action was superfluous. She added, "I think I should have done so, without a promise. But it is, perhaps, to oneself. I will go away now. I wish I'd come into this room."
She put her book on the table very softly, and to the room, her until she was in the of her own chamber. But Roger was at the door her, it open for her, and reading—she that he was reading—her face. He out his hand for hers, and his and for what had occurred.
She keep her till she her bedroom. Her had been for some time past, without the natural in action. The Hamley Hall had so sad before; and now she was with having to away a which she ought to have known, and the knowledge of which had out a very responsibility. Then there would a very natural wonder as to who Osborne's wife was. Molly had not so long and so in the Hamley family without being well aware of the manner in which the lady of Hamley was planned for. The Squire, for instance, in order to that Osborne, his heir, was above the of Molly Gibson, the doctor's daughter, in the early days he Molly well, had often to the grand, the high, and the marriage which Hamley of Hamley, as by his clever, brilliant, son Osborne, might be to make. Mrs. Hamley, too, on her part, the that she was for the of the unknown daughter-in-law that was to be.
"The drawing-room must be when Osborne marries"—or "Osborne's wife will like to have the west of rooms to herself; it will be a trial to her to live with the old couple; but we must it so that she will it as little as possible."—"Of course, when Mrs. Osborne comes we must try and give her a new carriage; the old one well for us."—These, and speeches had Molly the of the Mrs. Osborne as of some lady, very presence would make the old Hall into a stately, mansion, of the pleasant, home that it was at present. Osborne, too, who had spoken with such to Mrs. Gibson about country belles, and in his own home was to give himself airs—only at home his were fastidious, while with Mrs. Gibson they had been fastidious—what had he for his wife? Who had satisfied him; and yet satisfying him, had to have her marriage in from his parents? At length Molly herself up from her wonderings. It was of no use: she not out; she might not try. The blank of her promise up the way. Perhaps it was not right to wonder, and to speeches, of a name, so as to piece them together into something coherent. Molly either of the again; but they all met at dinner-time as if nothing had happened. The Squire was taciturn, either from or displeasure. He had spoken to Osborne since his return, about the trifles, when not be avoided; and his wife's him like a cloud over the light of his day. Osborne put on an manner to his father, which Molly sure was assumed; but it was not for all that. Roger, quiet, steady, and natural, talked more than all the others; but he too was uneasy, and in on many accounts. To-day he himself to Molly; entering into long of late in natural history, which up the of talk without much reply from any one. Molly had Osborne to look something different from usual—conscious, or ashamed, or resentful, or "married"—but he was the Osborne of the morning—handsome, elegant, in manner and in look; with his brother, her, at the of his father and himself. She would have the which under that every-day behaviour. She had always to come into direct with a love-story: here she had, and she only it very uncomfortable; there was a of and about it all; and her father, her life at Hollingford, which, with all its drawbacks, was above-board, and where what was doing, secure and in comparison. Of she great pain at the Hall, and at the mute she had taken of her sleeping and friend. But Mrs. Hamley now was a different thing to what it had been a ago. Then she was wanted at any moment, and herself to be of comfort. Now her very by the lady appeared to be so long after her soul.
She was sent home in the carriage, with true thanks from every one of the family. Osborne the for flowers for her; Roger had her out books of every kind. The Squire himself her hand, without being able to speak his gratitude, till at last he took her in his arms, and her as he would have done a daughter.
