A FLUKE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Illustrationhe and of having a lover of her own was soon to to Molly's share; though, to be sure, it was a little from the that the man who came with the full of to her, ended by making Cynthia an offer. It was Mr. Coxe, who came to Hollingford to out the purpose he had to Mr. Gibson nearly two years before, of Molly to his wife as soon as he should have succeeded to his uncle's estate. He was now a rich, though still a red-haired, man. He came to the George Inn, his and his groom; not that he was going to much, but that he such of his might help on his suit; and he was so in his of himself that he that he needed all aid. He himself on his constancy; and indeed, that he had been so much by his duty, his affection, and his to his old uncle, that he had not been able to go much into society, and very into the company of ladies, such to Molly was very meritorious, at least in his own eyes. Mr. Gibson too was touched by it, and it a point of to give him a field, all the time that Molly would not be such a as to a ear to a who the and epiphysis. He it as well not to tell his wife more of Mr. Coxe's than that he had been a pupil; who had ("all that he of," understood) the medical an old uncle had left him of money to be idle. Mrs. Gibson, who that she had somehow her place in her husband's favour, took it into her that she herself if she was successful in a good match for his Molly. She that her husband had her to try for this end, as as a meaning; but her own so her meaning, or if they did, she to her opinions so loosely, that she had no idea but that it was the same with other people. Accordingly she gave Mr. Coxe a very sweet and welcome.
"It is such a to me to make with the of my husband. He has spoken to me so often of you that I as if you were one of the family, as I am sure that Mr. Gibson you."
Mr. Coxe much flattered, and took the as a happy for his love-affair. "Is Miss Gibson in?" asked he, violently. "I her formerly—that is to say, I in the same house with her, for more than two years, and it would be a great to—to—"
"Certainly, I am sure she will be so to see you. I sent her and Cynthia—you don't know my Cynthia, I think, Mr. Coxe? she and Molly are such great friends—out for a walk this day, but I think they will soon come back." She on saying to the man, who her with a complacency, but was all the time much more in to the well-remembered at the door,—the it to again with care, and the of the familiar on the stair. At last they came. Cynthia entered first, and blooming, fresh colour in her and lips, fresh in her eyes. She looked at the of a stranger, and for an she stopped at the door, as if taken by surprise. Then in came Molly her, smiling, happy, dimpled; but not such a as Cynthia.
"Oh, Mr. Coxe, is it you?" said she, going up to him with an hand, and him with friendliness.
"Yes; it such a long time since I saw you. You are so much grown—so much—well, I I mustn't say what," he replied, speaking hurriedly, and her hand all the time, to her discomfiture. Then Mrs. Gibson her daughter, and the two girls spoke of the of their walk. Mr. Coxe his in that very interview, if he have had any chance, by his in his feelings, and Mrs. Gibson helped him to it by trying to him. Molly her open of manner, and to away from him in a way which he was a very return for all his to her these two years past; and after all she was not the his or his love had painted her. That Miss Kirkpatrick was more and much of access. For Cynthia put on all her airs—her look of in what any one was saying to her, let the be what it would, as if it was the thing she most about in the whole world; her deference; in short, all the she by of the of men. So while Molly him, Cynthia him to her by her soft ways; and his her charms. He was that he had not gone too with Molly, and to Mr. Gibson for having all two years ago; for Cynthia, and Cynthia alone, make him happy. After a fortnight's time, which he had in his allegiance, he it to speak to Mr. Gibson. He did so with a of in his own in the affair, but at the same time of the of his own which was naturally involved. Now it had so that Mr. Gibson had been little at home the that Mr. Coxe had at the "George," but in had the part of his time at Mr. Gibson's house—so that he had very little of his pupil, and on the whole he had him improved, after Molly's manner had her father sure that Mr. Coxe no in that quarter. But Mr. Gibson was of the which Cynthia had had for the man. If he had it, he would have it in the quickly, for he had no of any girl, though only to one man, offers from others, if a little plain speaking prevent it. Mr. Coxe had asked for a private interview; they were in the old surgery, now called the consulting-room, but still so much of its self as to be the last place in which Mr. Coxe himself at ease. He was red up to the very of his red hair, and his new and in his fingers, unable to out the proper way of his sentence, so at length he in, or no grammar.
"Mr. Gibson, I you'll be surprised, I'm sure I am at—at what I want to say; but I think it's the part of an man, as you said yourself, sir, a year or two ago, to—to speak to the father first, and as you, sir, in the place of a father to Miss Kirkpatrick, I should like to my feelings, my hopes, or I should say wishes, in short—"
"Miss Kirkpatrick?" said Mr. Gibson, a good surprised.
"Yes, sir!" Mr. Coxe, on now he had got so far. "I know it may appear and changeable, but I do you, I came here with a as to your as in a man's bosom. I most to offer myself and all that I had to her I left; but really, sir, if you had her manner to me every time I to press my a little—it was more than coy, it was repellent, there be no it,—while Miss Kirkpatrick—" he looked down, and the of his hat, a little while he did so.
"While Miss Kirkpatrick—?" Mr. Gibson, in such a voice, that Mr. Coxe, as he was now, as much as he used to do when he was an apprentice, and Mr. Gibson had spoken to him in a manner.
"I was only going to say, sir, that so as one can judge from manner, and to listen, and in my visits—altogether, I think I may to that Miss Kirkpatrick is not to me,—and I would wait,—you have no objection, have you, sir, to my speaking to her, I mean?" said Mr. Coxe, a little at the on Mr. Gibson's face. "I do you I haven't a with Miss Gibson," he continued, not what to say, and that his was in Mr. Gibson's mind.
"No! I don't you have. Don't go and it is that which is me. You're about Miss Kirkpatrick, however. I don't she have meant to give you encouragement!"
Mr. Coxe's paler. His feelings, if evanescent, were strong.
"I think, sir, if you have her—I don't myself vain, and manner is so difficult to describe. At any rate, you can have no to my taking my chance, and speaking to her."
"Of course, if you won't be otherwise, I can have no objection. But if you'll take my advice, you will the pain of a refusal. I may, perhaps, be on confidence, but I think I ought to tell you that her are otherwise engaged."
"It cannot be!" said Mr. Coxe. "Mr. Gibson, there must be some mistake. I have gone as as I in my feelings, and her manner has been most gracious. I don't think she have my meaning. Perhaps she has her mind? It is possible that, after consideration, she has learnt to another, is it not?"
"By 'another,' you yourself, I suppose. I can in such inconstancy" (he not help, in his own mind, a at the him), "but I should be very sorry to think that Miss Kirkpatrick be of it."
"But she may—it is a chance. Will you allow me to see her?"
"Certainly, my fellow"—for, with a little contempt, was a good of respect for the simplicity, the unworldliness, the of feeling, though the was evanescent—"I will send her to you directly."
"Thank you, sir. God you for a friend!"
Mr. Gibson to the drawing-room, where he was sure he should Cynthia. There she was, as and careless as usual, making up a for her mother, and to Molly as she worked.
"Cynthia, you will me by going into my consulting-room at once. Mr. Coxe wants to speak to you!"
"Mr. Coxe?" said Cynthia. "What can he want with me?"
Evidently, she answered her own question as soon as it was asked, for she coloured, and meeting Mr. Gibson's severe, look. As soon as she had left the room, Mr. Gibson sat down, and took up a new Edinburgh on the table, as an for conversation. Was there anything in the article that him say, after a minute or two, to Molly, who sat and wondering—"Molly, you must with the love of an man. You don't know what pain you may give."
Presently Cynthia came into the drawing-room, looking very much confused. Most likely she would not have returned if she had that Mr. Gibson was still there; but it was such an unheard-of thing for him to be in that room in the middle of the day, reading or making to read, that she had of his remaining. He looked up at her the moment she came in, so there was nothing for it but a on it, and going to her work.
"Is Mr. Coxe still downstairs?" asked Mr. Gibson.
"No. He is gone. He asked me to give you his regards. I he is this afternoon." Cynthia to make her manner as as possible; but she did not look up, and her voice a little.
Mr. Gibson on looking at his book for a minutes; but Cynthia that more was coming, and only it would come quickly, for the was very hard to bear. It came at last.
"I trust this will again, Cynthia!" said he, in displeasure. "I should not satisfied with the of any girl, free, who marked from a man with complacency, and so lead him on to make an offer which she meant to accept. But what must I think of a woman in your position, engaged—yet 'accepting most graciously,' for that was the way Coxe it—the of another man? Do you what pain you have him by your behaviour? I call it thoughtless, but it's the I can apply to it. I that such a thing may not again, or I shall be to it more severely."
"I trust this will again, Cynthia!"
"I trust this will again, Cynthia!"
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Molly not what "more severely" be, for her father's manner appeared to her almost in its sternness. Cynthia up extremely, then pale, and at length her full of to Mr. Gibson. He was touched by that look, but he not to be by any of her physical of expression, but to keep to his of her conduct.
"Please, Mr. Gibson, my of the you speak so to me. I did not to—to flirt. I meant to make myself agreeable,—I can't help doing that,—and that of a Mr. Coxe to have I meant to give him encouragement."
"Do you that you were not aware that he was in love with you?" Mr. Gibson was melting into a to be by that sweet voice and face.
"Well, I I must speak truly." Cynthia and smiled—ever so little—but it was a smile, and it Mr. Gibson's again. "I did think once or twice that he was a little more than the occasion required; but I cold water on people, and I he take it into his to himself in love, and to make such a at the last, after only a fortnight's acquaintance."
"You to have been well aware of his (I should call it simplicity). Don't you think you should have that it might lead him to what you were doing and saying into encouragement?"
"Perhaps. I I'm all wrong, and that he is all right," said Cynthia, and pouting. "We used to say in France, that 'les tort,' but it as if here—" she stopped. She was to be to a man she and liked. She took up another point of her defence, and worse. "Besides, Roger would not allow me to myself as to him; I would have done it, but he would not let me."
"Nonsense. Don't let us go on talking about it, Cynthia! I've said all that I to say. I that you were only thoughtless, as I told you before. But don't let it again." He left the room at once, to put a stop to the conversation, the of which would no useful purpose, and end by him.
"Not guilty, but we the not to do it again. It's much that, isn't it, Molly?" said Cynthia, her downfall, while she smiled. "I do your father might make a good woman of me yet, if he would only take the pains, and wasn't so severe. And to think of that little making all this mischief! He to take it to heart, as if he had loved me for years of only for days. I only for hours if the truth were told."
"I was he was very of you," said Molly; "at least it me once or twice; but I he not long, and I it would only make you if I said anything about it. But now I wish I had!"
"It wouldn't have a of difference," Cynthia. "I he liked me, and I like to be liked; it's in me to try to make every one I come near of me; but then they shouldn't it too far, for it very if they do. I shall red-haired people for the of my life. To think of such a man as that being the of your father's with me!"
Molly had a question at her tongue's end that she to put; she it was indiscreet, but at last out it came almost against her will:
"Shall you tell Roger about it?"
Cynthia replied, "I've not about it—no! I don't think I shall—there's no need. Perhaps, if we are married—"
"Ever married!" said Molly, under her breath. But Cynthia took no notice of the until she had the which it interrupted.
"—and I can see his and know his mood, I may tell it him then; but not in writing, and when he is absent; it might him."
"I am it would make him uncomfortable," said Molly, simply. "And yet it must be so to be able to tell him everything—all your and troubles."
"Yes; only I don't worry him with these things; it's to him letters, and him up among the black folk. You 'Ever married,' a little while ago; do you know, Molly, I don't think I shall be married to him? I don't know why, but I have a presentiment, so it's just as well not to tell him all my secrets, for it would be for him to know them if it came off!"
Molly her work, and sat silent, looking into the future; at length she said, "I think it would his heart, Cynthia!"
"Nonsense. Why, I'm sure that Mr. Coxe came here with the of in love with you—you needn't so violently. I'm sure you saw it as as I did, only you disagreeable, and I took on him, and his vanity."
"Can you—do you to Roger Hamley to Mr. Coxe?" asked Molly, indignantly.
"No, no, I don't!" said Cynthia in a moment. "They are as different as men can be. Don't be so over everything, Molly. You look as with sad reproach, as if I had been on to you the your father gave me."
"Because I don't think you value Roger as you ought, Cynthia!" said Molly stoutly, for it a good of to herself to say this, although she not tell why she so from speaking.
"Yes, I do! It's not in my nature to go into ecstasies, and I don't I shall be what people call 'in love.' But I am he loves me, and I like to make him happy, and I think him the best and most man I know, always your father when he isn't angry with me. What can I say more, Molly? would you like me to say I think him handsome?"
"I know most people think him plain, but—"
"Well, I'm of the opinion of most people then, and small to them. But I like his face—oh, ten thousand times than Mr. Preston's handsomeness!" For the time the Cynthia in earnest. Why Mr. Preston was neither she Molly knew; it came up and out by a impulse; but a look came into the eyes, and the soft themselves as Cynthia named his name. Molly had noticed this look before, always at the mention of this one person.
"Cynthia, what makes you Mr. Preston so much?"
"Don't you? Why do you ask me? and yet, Molly," said she, into depression, not in and look, but in the of her limbs—"Molly, what should you think of me if I married him after all?"
"Married him! Has he asked you?"
But Cynthia, of to this question, on, her own thoughts,—"More have happened. Have you of ones into submission? One of the girls at Madame Lefevre's out as a to a Russian family, who near Moscow. I sometimes think I'll to her to me a in Russia, just to out of the daily of that man!"
"But sometimes you with him, and talk to him—"
"How can I help it?" said Cynthia impatiently. Then herself she added: "We him so well at Ashcombe, and he's not a man to be easily off, I can tell you. I must be to him; it's not from liking, and he it's not, for I've told him so. However, we won't talk about him. I don't know how we came to do it, I'm sure: the of his existence, and of his being a mile of us, is enough. Oh! I wish Roger was at home, and rich, and me at once, and me away from that man! If I'd of it, I I would have taken red-haired Mr. Coxe."
"I don't it at all," said Molly. "I Mr. Preston, but I should think of taking such steps as you speak of, to away from the in which he lives."
"No, you are a little darling," said Cynthia, her manner, and up to Molly, and her. "At least you'll I'm a good hater!"
"Yes. But still I don't it."
"Oh, mind! There are old with our at Ashcombe. Money are at the of it all. Horrid poverty—do let us talk of something else! Or, still, let me go and my to Roger, or I shall be too late for the African mail!"
"Isn't it gone? Oh, I ought to have you! It will be too late. Did you not see the notice at the post-office that ought to be in London on the of the 10th of the evening. Oh, I am so sorry!"
"So am I, but it can't be helped. It is to be it will be the when he it. I've a weight on my heart, your father so with me. I was of him, and now he is making me a coward. You see, Molly," she, a little piteously, "I've with people with such a high of before; and I don't know how to behave."
"You must learn," said Molly tenderly. "You'll Roger as in his of right and wrong."
"Ah, but he's in love with me!" said Cynthia, with a of her power. Molly away her head, and was silent; it was of no use the truth, and she not to it—not to feel, girl, that she too had a great weight on her heart, into the of which she from examining. That whole winter long she had as if her sun was all over with mist, and no longer for her. She up in the with a of something being wrong; the world was out of joint, and, if she were to set it right, she did not know how to do it. Blind herself as she would, she not help that her father was not satisfied with the wife he had chosen. For a long time Molly had been at his contentment; sometimes she had been to be that he was satisfied; but still more nature would have its way, and she was almost at what she his blindness. Something, however, had him now: something that had at the time of Cynthia's engagement. He had to his wife's failings, and his whole manner had and sarcastic, not to her, but sometimes to Cynthia,—and even—but this very rarely, to Molly herself. He was not a man to go into passions, or of feeling: they would have him, while him in his own eyes; but he hard, and occasionally in his speeches and ways. Molly now learnt to long after the in which her father had passed the year of his marriage; yet there were no of peace. Some people might say that Mr. Gibson "accepted the inevitable;" he told himself in more phrase "that it was no use over milk:" and he, from principle, all with his wife, to cut a by a sarcasm, or by the room. Moreover, Mrs. Gibson had a very of her own, and her cat-like nature and in ways, and quietness. She had no great for sarcasm; it is true it her, but as she was not quick at any of meaning, and it to think about it, she it as soon as possible. Yet she saw she was often in some of with her husband, and it her uneasy. She Cynthia in this: she liked to be liked; and she wanted to the which she did not she had for ever. Molly sometimes took her stepmother's part in secret; she as if she herself have her father's hard speeches so patiently; they would have cut her to the heart, and she must either have an explanation, and the to the bottom, or sat and miserable. Instead of which Mrs. Gibson, after her husband had left the room, on these occasions would say in a manner more than hurt—
"I think dear papa a little put out to-day; we must see that he has a dinner that he when he comes home. I have often that on making a man in his own house."
And thus she on, about to the means of herself in his good graces—really trying, according to her lights, till Molly was often to her in of herself, and although she saw that her was the of her father's of disposition. For, indeed, he had got into that of with to his wife's faults, which may be best by the of that is produced by the of any particular noise: those who are of it, are to be always on the watch for the repetition, if they are once to notice it, and are in an of nerves.
So that Molly had not passed a winter, of any private that she might have in her own heart. She did not look well, either: she was into low health, than health. Her more and slower; the of hope—even hope—was gone out of her life. It as if there was not, and be in this world, any help for the her father and his wife. Day after day, month after month, year after year, would Molly have to with her father, and her stepmother, for both, and more than Mrs. Gibson for herself. Molly not how she had at one time for her father's to be opened, and how she have that if they were, he would be able to in Mrs. Gibson's character. It was all hopeless, and the only attempt at a was to think about it as little as possible. Then Cynthia's and manners about Roger gave Molly a great of uneasiness. She did not that Cynthia for him; at any rate, not with the of love that she herself would have bestowed, if she had been so happy—no, that was not it—if she had been in Cynthia's place. She as if she should have gone to him hands out, full and over with tenderness, and been for every word of on her. Yet Cynthia his with a of carelessness, and read them with a indifference, while Molly sat at her feet, so to speak, looking up with as as a dog's waiting for crumbs, and such beneficences.
She to be patient on these occasions, but at last she must ask—"Where is he, Cynthia? What he say?" By this time Cynthia had put the on the table by her, a little from time to time, as she the it contained.
"Where? Oh, I didn't look exactly—somewhere in Abyssinia—Huon. I can't read the word, and it doesn't much signify, for it would give me no idea."
"Is he well?" asked Molly.
"Yes, now. He has had a touch of fever, he says; but it's all over now, and he he is acclimatized."
"Of fever!—and who took of him? he would want nursing,—and so from home. Oh, Cynthia!"
"Oh, I don't he had any nursing, fellow! One doesn't nursing, and hospitals, and doctors in Abyssinia; but he had of with him, and I that is the best specific. At any he says he is well now!"
Molly sat for a minute or two.
"What is the date of the letter, Cynthia?"
"I didn't look. December the—December the 10th."
"That's nearly two months ago," said Molly.
"Yes; but I I wouldn't worry myself with anxiety, when he away. If anything did—go wrong, you know," said Cynthia, using a for death, as most people do (it is an word to speak plain out in the of life), "it would be all over I of his illness, and I be of no use to him—could I, Molly?"
"No. I it is all very true; only I should think the Squire not take it so easily."
"I always him a little note when I from Roger, but I don't think I'll name this touch of fever—shall I, Molly?"
"I don't know," said Molly. "People say one ought, but I almost wish I hadn't it. Please, he say anything else that I may hear?"
"Oh, lovers' are so silly, and I think this is than usual," said Cynthia, looking over her again. "Here's a piece you may read, from that line to that," two places. "I haven't read it myself for it looked dullish—all about Aristotle and Pliny—and I want to this bonnet-cap up we go out to pay our calls."
Molly took the letter, the her mind that he had touched it, had had his hands upon it, in those lands, where he might be to and to any knowledge of his fate; now her almost the paper with their of touch as she read. She saw to books, which, with a little trouble, would be to her here in Hollingford. Perhaps the and the would make the and to some people, but not to her, thanks to his teaching and the he had in her for his pursuits. But, as he said in apology, what had he to about in that land, but his love, and his researches, and travels? There was no society, no gaiety, no new books to about, no in Abyssinian wilds.
Molly was not in health, and this her a little fanciful; but it is that her by day and her by night were by the idea of Roger and in those lands. Her prayer, "O my Lord! give her the child, and in no wise it," came from a as true as that of the mother in King Solomon's judgment. "Let him live, let him live, though I may set upon him again. Have upon his father! Grant that he may come home safe, and live with her he loves so tenderly—so tenderly, O God." And then she would into tears, and asleep at last, sobbing.
