BUSH-FIGHTING.
During all the months that had since Mrs. Hamley's death, Molly had many a time about the she had so of that last day in the Hall library. It so and unheard-of a thing to her mind, that a man should be married, and yet not live with his wife—that a son should have entered into the of without his father's knowledge, and without being as the husband of some one or unknown by all those with he came in daily contact, that she occasionally as if that little ten minutes of must have been a in a dream. Roger had only to it once, and Osborne had entire on the since. Not a look, or a pause, any to it; it to have passed out of their thoughts. There had been the great sad event of their mother's death to their minds on the next occasion of their meeting Molly; and since then long of had taken place; so that she sometimes as if the must have how she had come to know their secret. She herself often it, but the of it was present to her unawares, and her to the nature of Osborne's Cynthia. At any rate, she for a moment had that his manner Cynthia was anything but the of a friend. Strange to say, in these days Molly had looked upon Osborne's relation to herself as much the same as that in which at one time she had Roger's; and she of the as of some one as nearly a to Cynthia and herself, as any man well be, they had not in childhood, and who was in related to them. She that he was very much in manner, and in character, by his mother's death. He was no longer sarcastic, or fastidious, or vain, or self-confident. She did not know how often all these of talk or of were put on to or consciousness, and to the self from strangers.
Osborne's and might very possibly have been just the same as before, had he been new people; but Molly only saw him in their own circle in which he was on terms of intimacy. Still there was no that he was improved, though not to the for which Molly gave him credit; and this on her part very naturally from the fact, that he, Roger's warm for Cynthia, a little out of his brother's way; and used to go and talk to Molly in order not to himself Roger and Cynthia. Of the two, perhaps, Osborne Molly; to her he needed not to talk if the mood was not on him—they were on those happy terms where is permissible, and where to act against the mood of the mind are not required. Sometimes, indeed, when Osborne was in the to be and as of yore, he used to Roger by upon it that Molly was than Cynthia.
"You mark my words, Roger. Five years hence the Cynthia's red and white will have just a little coarse, and her will have thickened, while Molly's will only have into more perfect grace. I don't the girl has done yet; I'm sure she's than when I saw her last summer."
"Miss Kirkpatrick's must always be perfection. I cannot any come up to them: soft, grave, appealing, tender; and such a colour—I often try to something in nature to them to; they are not like violets—that in the is too like physical of sight; they are not like the sky—that colour has something of in it."
"Come, don't go on trying to match her as if you were a draper, and they a of ribbon; say at once 'her are load-stars,' and have done with it! I set up Molly's and black lashes, long above the other woman's; but, of course, it's all a of taste."
And now Osborne and Roger had left the neighbourhood. In of all that Mrs. Gibson had said about Roger's visits being ill-timed and intrusive, she to as if they had been a very variety, now that they had altogether. He in a of a new from that of Hollingford. He and his had been always to do little which only a man can do for women; small services which Mr. Gibson was always too to render. For the good doctor's upon him. He that this was to his skill and experience, and he would have been if he have how many of his were in sending for him, by the that he was at the Towers. Something of this must have been in the low of payment long ago by the Cumnor family. Of itself the money he for going to the Towers would have paid him for horse-flesh, but then, as Lady Cumnor in her days had it,—
"It is such a thing for a man just setting up in for himself to be able to say he at this house!"
So the was and paid for; but neither seller the nature of the bargain.
On the whole, it was as well that Mr. Gibson so much of his time from home. He sometimes so himself when he his wife's or over totally things, and of how a nature were all her sentiments. Still, he did not allow himself to over the step he had taken; he his and up his ears to many small that he would have him if he had to them; and, in his rides, he himself to on the positive that had to him and his through his marriage. He had an chaperone, if not a mother, for his little girl; a manager of his previous household; a woman who was and to look at for the of his table. Moreover, Cynthia for something on the of the balance. She was a for Molly; and the two were very of each other. The of the mother and was to him as well as to his child,—when Mrs. Gibson was and not over-sentimental, he added; and then he himself, for he would not allow himself to more aware of her and by them. At any rate, she was harmless, and just to Molly for a stepmother. She herself upon this indeed, and would often call attention to the of her being other in this respect. Just then came into Mr. Gibson's eyes, as he how and his little Molly had in her to him; but how once or twice, when they had met upon the stairs, or were otherwise unwitnessed, she had him and him—hand or cheek—in a sad of affection. But in a moment he to an old Scotch air he had in his childhood, and which had to his memory since; and five minutes he was too a case of white in the of a little boy, and how to the mother, who out all day, and had to to the of her child all night, to have any for his own cares, which, if they existed, were of so a nature to the hard of this woe.
Osborne came home first. He returned, in fact, not long after Roger had gone away; but he was and unwell, and, though he did not complain, he to any exertion. Thus a week or more any of the Gibsons that he was at the Hall; and then it was only by that they aware of it. Mr. Gibson met him in one of the near Hamley; the noticed the of the man as he came near, he who it was. When he him he said,—
"Why, Osborne, is it you? I it was an old man of fifty me! I didn't know you had come back."
"Why, Osborne, Is It You?"
"Why, Osborne, Is It You?"
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"Yes," said Osborne, "I've been at home nearly ten days. I I ought to have called on your people, for I a promise to Mrs. Gibson to let her know as soon as I returned; but the is, I'm very good-for-nothing,—this air me; I breathe in the house, and yet I'm already with this walk."
"You'd home at once; and I'll call and see you as I come from Rowe's."
"No, you mustn't on any account!" said Osborne, hastily; "my father is about my going from home, so often, he says, though I hadn't been from it for six weeks. He puts all my to my having been away,—he the purse-strings, you know," he added, with a smile, "and I'm in the unlucky position of a heir, and I've been up so—In fact, I must home from time to time, and, if my father in this of his that my health is for my absences, he'll stop the altogether."
"May I ask where you do your time when you are not at Hamley Hall?" asked Mr. Gibson, with some in his manner.
"No!" Osborne, reluctantly. "I will tell you this:—I with friends in the country. I lead a life which ought to be to health, it is simple, rational, and happy. And now I've told you more about it than my father himself knows. He me where I've been; and I shouldn't tell him if he did—at least, I think not."
Mr. Gibson on by Osborne's side, not speaking for a moment or two.
"Osborne, you may have got into, I should your telling your father out. I know him; and I know he'll be angry at first, but he'll come round, take my word for it; and, somehow or another, he'll money to pay your and set you free, if it's that of difficulty; and if it's any other of entanglement, why still he's your best friend. It's this from your father that's telling on your health, I'll be bound."
"No," said Osborne, "I your pardon; but it's not that; I am out of order. I my to any from my father is the of my indisposition; but I'll answer for it, it is not the of it. My tells me there is something the with me."
"Come, don't be setting up your against the profession," said Mr. Gibson, cheerily.
He dismounted, and the of his his arm, he looked at Osborne's and his pulse, him questions. At the end he said,—
"We'll soon you about, though I should like a little more talk with you, without this for a third. If you'll manage to over and with us to-morrow, Dr. Nicholls will be with us; he's over to see old Rowe; and you shall have the of the of two doctors of one. Go home now, you've had for the middle of a day as as this is. And don't in the house, to the of your instinct."
"What else have I to do?" said Osborne. "My father and I are not companions; one can't read and for ever, when there's no end to be by it. I don't mind telling you—but in confidence, recollect—that I've been trying to some of my published; but there's no one like a publisher for taking the out of one. Not a man among them would have them as a gift."
"Oho! so that's it, is it, Master Osborne? I there was some for this of health. I wouldn't trouble my about it, if I were you, though that's always very easily said, I know. Try your hand at prose, if you can't manage to the with poetry; but, at any rate, don't go on over milk. But I mustn't my time here. Come over to us to-morrow, as I said; and what with the of two doctors, and the and of three women, I think we shall you up a bit."
So saying, Mr. Gibson remounted, and away at the long, so well to the country people as the doctor's pace.
"I don't like his looks," Mr. Gibson to himself at night, as over his he the events of the day. "And then his pulse. But how often we're all mistaken; and, ten to one, my own enemy closer to me than his to him—even taking the view of the case."
Osborne his a time the next morning; and no one to the of his call. He was better. There were of the about him; and what there were under the of such a welcome as he from all. Molly and Cynthia had much to tell him of the small since he away, or to relate the of half-accomplished projects. Cynthia was often on the point of some gay, careless as to where he had been, and what he had been doing; but Molly, who the truth, as often to him the pain of equivocation—a pain that her would have for him, much more than he would have it for himself.
Mrs. Gibson's talk was desultory, complimentary, and sentimental, after her fashion; but still, on the whole, though Osborne to himself at much that she said, it was and agreeable. Presently, Dr. Nicholls and Mr. Gibson came in; the had had some with the on the of Osborne's health; and, from time to time, the old physician's and gave a look at Osborne.
Then there was lunch, when every one was and hungry, the hostess, who was trying to train her into the of all ways, and (falsely enough) that Dr. Nicholls was a good person to the of ill-health upon, and that he would give her the proper amount of for her ailments, which every guest ought to upon a who of her of health. The old doctor was too a man to into this trap. He would keep her to try the on the table; and, at last, he told her if she not the cold to try a little with onions. There was a in his as he said this, that would have his to any observer; but Mr. Gibson, Cynthia, and Molly were all Osborne on the of some he had expressed, and Dr. Nicholls had Mrs. Gibson at his mercy. She was not sorry when was over to the room to the three gentlemen; and she spoke of Dr. Nicholls as "that bear."
Presently, Osborne came upstairs, and, after his old fashion, to take up new books, and to question the girls as to their music. Mrs. Gibson had to go out and pay some calls, so she left the three together; and after a while they into the garden, Osborne on a chair, while Molly herself in up carnations, and Cynthia flowers in her careless, way.
"I you notice the in our occupations, Mr. Hamley. Molly, you see, herself to the useful, and I to the ornamental. Please, under what do you class what you are doing? I think you might help one of us, of looking on like the Grand Seigneur."
"I don't know what I can do," said he, plaintively. "I should like to be useful, but I don't know how; and my day is past for purely work. You must let me be, I'm afraid. Besides, I'm by being questioned and about by those good doctors."
"Why, you don't to say they have been you since lunch!" Molly.
"Yes; indeed, they have; and they might have gone on till now if Mrs. Gibson had not come in opportunely."
"I had gone out some time ago!" said Cynthia, of the as she and among the flowers.
"She came into the dining-room not five minutes ago. Do you want her, for I see her the at this very moment?" and Osborne rose.
"Oh, not at all!" said Cynthia. "Only she to be in such a to go out, I she had set off long ago. She had some to do for Lady Cumnor, and she she manage to catch the housekeeper, who is always in the town on Thursday."
"Are the family to the Towers this autumn?"
"I so. But I don't know, and I don't much care. They don't take to me," Cynthia, "and so I I'm not to take to them."
"I should have that such a very in their would have you in them as people," said Osborne, with a little air of gallantry.
"Isn't that a compliment?" said Cynthia, after a pause of meditation. "If any one pays me a compliment, let it be and clear. I'm very at out meanings."
"Then such speeches as 'you are very pretty,' or 'you have manners,' are what you prefer. Now, I myself on up my sugar-plums delicately."
"Then would you to them down, and at my I'll them."
"No! It would be too much trouble. I'll meet you half-way, and study next time."
"What are you two talking about?" said Molly, on her light spade.
"It's only a on the best way of compliments," said Cynthia, taking up her flower-basket again, but not going out of the of the conversation.
"I don't like them at all in any way," said Molly. "But, perhaps, it's with me," she added.
"Nonsense!" said Osborne. "Shall I tell you what I of you at the ball?"
"Or shall I Mr. Preston," said Cynthia, "to upon you? It's like a tap, such a of speeches out at the moment." Her lip with scorn.
"For you, perhaps," said Molly; "but not for me."
"For any woman. It's his of making himself agreeable. If you me, Molly, I'll try the experiment, and you'll see with what success."
"No, don't, pray!" said Molly, in a hurry. "I do so him!"
"Why?" said Osborne, to a little by her vehemence.
"Oh! I don't know. He to know what one is feeling."
"He wouldn't if he did know," said Cynthia. "And he might know he is not wanted."
"If he to stay, he little he is wanted or not."
"Come, this is very interesting," said Osborne. "It is like the and anti-strophe in a Greek chorus. Pray, go on."
"Don't you know him?" asked Molly.
"Yes, by sight, and I think we were once introduced. But, you know, we are much from Ashcombe, at Hamley, than you are here, at Hollingford."
"Oh! but he's to take Mr. Sheepshanks' place, and then he'll live here altogether," said Molly.
"Molly! who told you that?" said Cynthia, in a different of voice from that in which she had been speaking hitherto.
"Papa,—didn't you him? Oh, no! it was you were this morning. Papa met Mr. Sheepshanks yesterday, and he told him it was all settled: you know we a about it in the spring!"
Cynthia was very after this. Presently, she said that she had all the flowers she wanted, and that the was so great she would go indoors. And then Osborne away. But Molly had set herself a to up such as had already flowered, and to put some bedding-out plants in their stead. Tired and as she was she it, and then to rest, and her dress. According to her wont, she for Cynthia; there was no reply to her soft at the bedroom-door opposite to her own, and, that Cynthia might have asleep, and be in the of the open window, she in softly. Cynthia was upon the as if she had herself on it without for the or of her position. She was very still; and Molly took a shawl, and was going to place it over her, when she opened her eyes, and spoke,—
"Is that you, dear? Don't go. I like to know that you are there."
She her again, and for a minutes longer. Then she started up into a posture, pushed her away from her and eyes, and at Molly.
"Do you know what I've been thinking, dear?" said she. "I think I've been long here, and that I had go out as a governess."
"Cynthia! what do you mean?" asked Molly, aghast. "You've been asleep—you've been dreaming. You're over-tired," she, on the bed, and taking Cynthia's hand, and it softly—a mode of that had come to her from her mother—whether as an instinct, or as a of the of the woman, Mr. Gibson often himself when he it.
"Oh, how good you are, Molly! I wonder, if I had been up like you, I should have been as good. But I've been about so."
"Then, don't go and be about any more," said Molly, softly.
"Oh, dear! I had go. But, you see, no one loved me like you, and, I think, your father—doesn't he, Molly? And it's hard to be out."
"Cynthia, I am sure you're not well, or else you're not awake."
Cynthia with her arms her knees, and looking at vacancy.
"Well!" said she, at last, a great sigh; but, then, as she Molly's face, "I there's no one's doom; and else I should be much more and unprotected."
"What do you by your doom?"
"Ah, that's telling, little one," said Cynthia, who now to have her manner. "I don't to have one, though. I think that, though I am an at heart, I can fight."
"With whom?" asked Molly, to the mystery—if, indeed, there was one—to the bottom, in the of some being for the Cynthia was in when Molly entered.
Again Cynthia was in thought; then, the echo of Molly's last in her mind, she said,—
"'With whom?'—oh! with whom?—why, my doom, to be sure. Am not I a lady to have a doom? Why, Molly, child, how and you look!" said she, her all of a sudden. "You ought not to so much for me; I'm not good for you to worry about me. I've myself up a long time ago as a baggage!"
"Nonsense! I wish you wouldn't talk so, Cynthia!"
"And I wish you wouldn't always take me 'at the of the letter,' as an English girl at used to it. Oh, how it is! Is it going to again? My child! what dirty hands you've got, and too; and I've been you—I I'm dirty with it, too. Now, isn't that like one of mamma's speeches? But, for all that, you look more like a Adam than a Eve." This had the that Cynthia intended; the clean Molly of her condition, which she had while she had been to Cynthia, and she to her own room. When she had gone, Cynthia locked the door; and, taking her out of her desk, she to count over her money. She it once—she it twice, as if of out some mistake which should prove it to be more than it was; but the end of it all was a sigh.
"What a fool!—what a I was!" said she, at length. "But if I don't go out as a governess, I shall make it up in time."
Some after the time he had when he had spoken of his to the Gibsons, Roger returned to the Hall. One when he called, Osborne told them that his had been at home for two or three days.
"And why has he not come here, then?" said Mrs. Gibson. "It is not of him not to come and see us as soon as he can. Tell him I say so—pray do."
Osborne had one or two ideas as to her of Roger the last time he had called. Roger had not of it, or mentioned it, till that very morning; when Osborne was on the point of starting, and had Roger to him, the had told him something of what Mrs. Gibson had said. He spoke as if he was more than annoyed; but Osborne read that he was at those restrictions upon calls which were the of his life. Neither of them let out the which had entered their minds—the well-grounded from the that Osborne's visits, be they paid early or late, had yet been met with a repulse.
Osborne now himself with having done Mrs. Gibson injustice. She was a weak, but a disinterested, woman; and it was only a little of ill-temper on her part which had her to speak to Roger as she had done.
"I it was of me to call at such an hour," said Roger.
"Not at all; I call at all hours, and nothing is said about it. It was just she was put out that morning. I'll answer for it she's sorry now, and I'm sure you may go there at any time you like in the future."
Still, Roger did not choose to go again for two or three weeks, and the was that the next time he called the ladies were out. Once again he had the same ill-luck, and then he a little three-cornered note from Mrs. Gibson:—
My dear Sir,
How is it that you are so all on a sudden, cards, of our return? Fie for shame! If you had the of that I did when the little of were to our view, you would not have against me so long; for it is others as well as my self. If you will come to-morrow—as early as you like—and with us, I'll own I was cross, and myself a penitent.—Yours ever,
Hyacinth C. K. Gibson.
There was no this, if there had not been to up the words. Roger went, and Mrs. Gibson and him in her sweetest, manner. Cynthia looked than to him for the that had been for a time on their intercourse. She might be and with Osborne; with Roger she was soft and grave. Instinctively she her men. She saw that Osborne was only in her of her position in a family with he was intimate; that his was without the least touch of sentiment; and that his was only the warm of an artist for beauty. But she how different Roger's relation to her was. To him she was the one, alone, peerless. If his love was prohibited, it would be long years he into friendship; and to him her personal was only one of the many that him into passion. Cynthia was not of returning such feelings; she had had too little true love in her life, and too much to do so; but she this ardour, this that was new to her experience. Such appreciation, and such respect for his true and nature, gave a to her manner to Roger, which him with a fresh and grace. Molly by, and how it would all end, or, rather, how soon it would all end, for she that no girl such passion; and on Roger's there be no doubt—alas! there be no doubt. An older might have looked ahead, and of the question of pounds, shillings, and pence. Where was the necessary for a marriage to come from? Roger had his Fellowship now, it is true; but the of that would be if he married; he had no profession, and the life of the two or three thousand that he from his mother, to his father. This older might have been a little at the of Mrs. Gibson's manner to a son, always this said to have read to the of her heart. Never had she to be more to Osborne; and though her attempt was a great failure when upon Roger, and he did not know what to say in reply to the which he to be insincere, he saw that she him to himself free of the house; and he was too to himself of this to over-closely into what might be her for her of manner. He his eyes, and to that she was now of making up for her little of on his previous visit.
The result of Osborne's with the two doctors had been which appeared to have done him much good, and which would in all have done him yet more, he have been free of the of the little patient wife in her near Winchester. He to her he could; and, thanks to Roger, money was more with him now than it had been. But he still shrank, and more and more, from telling his father of his marriage. Some him all inexpressibly. If he had not had this money from Roger, he might have been to tell his father all, and to ask for the necessary to provide for the wife and the child. But with in hand, and a secret, though remorseful, that as long as Roger had a his was sure to have of it, him more than to his father by a of his secret. "Not just yet, not just at present," he saying to Roger and to himself. "By-and-by, if we have a boy, I will call it Roger"—and then of and about father and son, through the medium of a child, the of a marriage, still more possible to him, and at any it was a staving-off of an thing. He to himself for taking so much of Roger's Fellowship money by that, if Roger married, he would this of revenue; yet Osborne was no in the way of this event, it by promoting every possible means of his brother's the lady of his love. Osborne ended his by himself of his own generosity.
