SECRET THOUGHTS OOZE OUT.
Molly Cynthia in the drawing-room, in the bow-window, looking out on the garden. She started as Molly came up to her.
"Oh, Molly," said she, her arms out her, "I am always so to have you with me!"
It was of such as these that always called Molly back, if she had been so in her to Cynthia. She had been that Cynthia would be less reserved, and not have so many secrets; but now it almost like to have wanted her to be anything but what she was. Never had any one more than Cynthia the power spoken of by Goldsmith when he wrote—
He off his friends like a his pack,
For he when he liked he them back.
"Do you know, I think you'll be to what I've got to tell you," said Molly. "I think you would like to go to London; shouldn't you?"
"Yes, but it's of no use liking," said Cynthia. "Don't you about it, Molly, for the thing is settled; and I can't tell you why, but I can't go."
"It is only the money, dear. And papa has been so about it. He wants you to go; he thinks you ought to keep up relationships; and he is going to give you ten pounds."
"How he is!" said Cynthia. "But I ought not to take it. I wish I had you years ago; I should have been different to what I am."
"Never mind that! We like you as you are; we don't want you different. You'll papa if you don't take it. Why do you hesitate? Do you think Roger won't like it?"
"Roger! no, I wasn't about him! Why should he care? I shall be there and again he about it."
"Then you will go?" said Molly.
Cynthia for a minute or two. "Yes, I will," said she, at length. "I it's not wise; but it will be pleasant, and I'll go. Where is Mr. Gibson? I want to thank him. Oh, how he is! Molly, you're a lucky girl!"
"I?" said Molly, at being told this; for she had been as if so many were going wrong, almost as if they would go right again.
"There he is!" said Cynthia. "I him in the hall!" And she flew, and her hands on Mr. Gibson's arm, she thanked him with such warm impulsiveness, and in so and a manner, that something of his old of personal for her returned, and he for a time the of he had against her.
"There, there!" said he, "that's enough, my dear! It's right you should keep up with your relations; there's nothing more to be said about it."
"I do think your father is the most man I know," said Cynthia, on her return to Molly; "and it's that which always makes me so of his good opinion, and so when I think he is with me. And now let us think all about this London visit. It will be delightful, won't it? I can make ten go so far; and in some it will be such a to out of Hollingford."
"Will it?" said Molly, wistfully.
"Oh, yes! You know I don't that it will be a to you; that will be anything but a comfort. But, after all, a country town is a country town, and London is London. You need not at my truisms; I've always had a with M. de la Palisse,—
M. de la Palisse mort
En sa vie;
Un d'heure sa mort
Il était en vie,"
sang she, in so a manner that she puzzled Molly, as she often did, by her of mood from the with which she had to accept the only an hour ago. She took Molly the waist, and the room with her, to the of the little tables, with "objets d'art" (as Mrs. Gibson to call them) with which the drawing-room was crowded. She them, however, with her skill; but they still at last, at Mrs. Gibson's surprise, as she at the door, looking at the going on her.
"Upon my word, I only you are not going crazy, of you! What's all this about, pray?"
"Only I'm so I'm going to London, mamma," said Cynthia, demurely.
"I'm not sure if it's the thing for an lady to be so much herself at the of gaiety. In my time, our great in our lovers' was in about them."
"I should have that would have you pain, you would have had to that they were away, which ought to have you unhappy. Now, to tell you the truth, just at the moment I had all about Roger. I it wasn't very wrong. Osborne looks as if he did all my as well as his own of the after Roger. How he looked yesterday!"
"Yes," said Molly; "I didn't know if any one me had noticed it. I was shocked."
"Ah," said Mrs. Gibson, "I'm that man won't live long—very much afraid," and she her ominously.
"Oh, what will if he dies!" Molly, down, and of that strange, wife who her appearance, very was spoken about—and Roger away too!
"Well, it would be very sad, of course, and we should all it very much, I've no doubt; for I've always been very of Osborne; in fact, Roger became, as it were, my own and blood, I liked Osborne better: but we must not the living, dear Molly," (for Molly's were with at the presented to her). "Our dear good Roger would, I am sure, do all in his power to Osborne's place in every way; and his marriage need not be so long delayed."
"Don't speak of that in the same as Osborne's life, mamma," said Cynthia, hastily.
"Why, my dear, it is a very natural thought. For Roger's sake, you know, one it not to be so very, very long an engagement; and I was only Molly's question, after all. One can't help out one's thoughts. People must die, you know—young, as well as old."
"If I Roger of out his in a way," said Cynthia, "I'd speak to him again."
"As if he would!" said Molly, warm in her turn. "You know he would; and you shouldn't it of him, Cynthia—no, not for a moment!"
"I can't see the great of it all, for my part," said Mrs. Gibson, plaintively. "A man us all as looking very ill—and I'm sure I'm sorry for it; but very often leads to death. Surely you agree with me there, and what's the of saying so? Then Molly what will if he dies; and I try to answer her question. I don't like talking or of death any more than any one else; but I should think myself wanting in of mind if I not look to the of death. I think we're to do so, in the Bible or the Prayer-book."
"Do you look to the of my death, mamma?" asked Cynthia.
"You are the most girl I met with," said Mrs. Gibson, hurt. "I wish I give you a little of my own sensitiveness, for I have too much for my happiness. Don't let us speak of Osborne's looks again; ten to one it was only some temporary over-fatigue, or some about Roger, or a little fit of indigestion. I was very to it to anything more serious, and dear papa might be if he I had done so. Medical men don't like other people to be making about health; they it as on their own particular province, and very proper, I'm sure. Now let us about your dress, Cynthia; I not how you had your money, and so little with it."
"Mamma! it may very cross, but I must tell Molly, and you, and everybody, once for all, that as I don't want and didn't ask for more than my allowance, I'm not going to answer any questions about what I do with it." She did not say this with any want of respect; but she said it with determination, which her mother for the time; though often afterwards, when Mrs. Gibson and Molly were alone, the would start the wonder as to what Cynthia possibly have done with her money, and each through and of doubt, till she was out; and the sport was up for the day. At present, however, she herself to the practical in hand; and the for and dress, in mother and daughter, soon settled a great many points of and taste, and then they all three set to work to "gar look as weel's the new."
Cynthia's relations with the Squire had been very since the visit she had paid to the Hall the previous autumn. He had them all at that time with politeness, and he had been more with Cynthia than he liked to to himself when he the visit all over afterwards.
"She's a lass, sure enough," he, "and has about her too, and to learn from older people, which is a good sign; but somehow I don't like her mother; but still she is her mother, and the girl's her daughter; yet she spoke to her once or twice as I shouldn't ha' liked our little Fanny to have spoken, if it had pleased God for her to ha' lived. No, it's not the right way, and it may be a old-fashioned, but I like the right way. And then again she took o' me, as I may say, and little Molly had to after us in the garden walks that are too narrow for three, just like a little four-legged doggie; and the other was so full of to me, she for to speak a word to Molly. I don't to say they're not of each other, and that's in Roger's sweetheart's favour; and it's very in me to go and fault with a who was so to me, and had such a way with her of on every word that from my lips. Well! a may come and go in two years! and the says nothing to me about it. I'll be as as him, and take no more notice of the till he comes home and tells me himself."
So although the Squire was always to the little notes which Cynthia sent him every time she from Roger, and although this attention on her part was melting the he to harden, he himself into her the acknowledgments. His were in meaning, but in expression; she herself did not think much about them, being satisfied to do the that called them forth. But her mother them and them. She she had on the truth when she in her own mind that it was a very old-fashioned style, and that he and his house and his all wanted some of the up and which they were sure to receive, when—she liked to the definitely, although she to herself that "there was no in it."
To return to the Squire. Occupied as he now was, he his health, and something of his cheerfulness. If Osborne had met him half-way, it is that the old father and son might have been renewed; but Osborne either was an invalid, or had into habits, and no to rally. If his father him to go out—nay, once or twice he his pride, and asked Osborne to him—Osborne would go to the window and out some or in the wind or weather, and make that an for stopping in-doors over his books. He would out on the sunny of the house in a manner that the Squire as and unmanly. Yet if there was a of his home, which he did often about this time, he was with a energy: the clouds in the sky, the wind, the of the air, were nothing to him then; and as the Squire did not know the of this to be gone, he took it into his that it from Osborne's to Hamley and to the of his father's society.
"It was a mistake," the Squire. "I see it now. I was great at making friends myself: I always those Oxford and Cambridge men up their at me for a country booby, and I'd the start and have none o' them. But when the boys to Rugby and Cambridge, I should ha' let them have had their own friends about 'em, though they might ha' looked on me; it was the they ha' done to me; and now what friends I had have off from me, by death or somehow, and it is but work for a man, I it. But he might try not to it so plain to me as he does. I'm case-hardened, but it cut me to the quick sometimes—it does. And he so of his as he was once! If I can but the land I'll make him an allowance, and let him go to London, or where he likes. Maybe he'll do this time, or maybe he'll go to the dogs altogether; but it will make him think a of the old father at home—I should like him to do that, I should!"
It is possible that Osborne might have been to tell his father of his marriage their long intercourse, if the Squire, in an unlucky moment, had not him his about Roger's with Cynthia. It was on one wet Sunday afternoon, when the father and son were together in the large empty drawing-room. Osborne had not been to church in the morning; the Squire had, and he was now trying hard to read one of Blair's sermons. They had early; they always did on Sundays; and either that, or the sermon, or the of the day, the long to the Squire. He had for the of his on Sundays. Cold meat, sermon-reading, no till after prayers, as little as possible as to the of the land and the condition of the crops, and as much in-doors in his best as was with going to church twice a day, and saying the louder than the clerk. To-day it had so that he had the church; but oh, with the luxury of a nap, how long it he saw the Hall homewards, along the field-path, a of umbrellas! He had been at the window for the last half-hour, his hands in his pockets, and his mouth often itself into the of a whistle, but as often into gravity—ending, nine times out of ten, in a yawn. He looked at Osborne, who was near the fire in a book. The Squire was something like the little boy in the child's story, who all of and to come and play with him; and, in every case, the answer, that they are too to have for amusements. The father wanted the son to put his book, and talk to him: it was so wet, so dull, and a little would so away the time! But Osborne, with his to the window where his father was standing, saw nothing of all this, and on reading. He had to his father's that it was a very wet afternoon, but had not on the into all the of of which it was susceptible. Something more must be started, and this the Squire felt. The of the Roger and Cynthia came into his head, and, without it a moment's consideration, he began,—
"Osborne! Do you know anything about this—this of Roger's?"
Quite successful. Osborne his book in a moment, and to his father.
"Roger! an attachment! No! I of it—I can it—that is to say, I it is to—"
And then he stopped; for he he had no right to his own that the object was Cynthia Kirkpatrick.
"Yes. He is though. Can you who to? Nobody that I particularly like—not a to my mind—yet she's a very girl; and I I was to in the instance."
"Is it—?"
"It's no use about the bush. I've gone so far, I may as well tell you all. It's Miss Kirkpatrick, Gibson's stepdaughter. But it's not an engagement, mind you—"
"I'm very glad—I she Roger again—"
"Like—it's only too good a for her not to like it: if Roger is of the same mind when he comes home, I'll be she'll be only too happy!"
"I wonder Roger told me," said Osborne, a little hurt, now he to himself.
"He told me either," said the Squire. "It was Gibson, who came here, and a clean of it, like a man of honour. I'd been saying to him, I couldn't have either of you two taking up with his lasses. I'll own it was you I was of—it's with Roger, and maybe will come to nothing after all; but if it had been you, I'd ha' with Gibson and every mother's son of 'em, sooner than have let it go on; and so I told Gibson."
"I your for you, but, once for all, I the right of my wife for myself, to no man's interference," said Osborne, hotly.
"Then you'll keep your wife with no man's interference, that's all; for ne'er a will you from me, my lad, unless you to me a little, as well as a great deal. That's all I ask of you. I'm not particular as to beauty, or as to cleverness, and piano-playing, and that of thing; if Roger marries this girl, we shall have of that in the family. I shouldn't much mind her being a older than you, but she must be well-born, and the more money she the for the old place."
"I say again, father, I choose my wife for myself, and I don't admit any man's right of dictation."
"Well, well!" said the Squire, a little angry in his turn. "If I'm not to be father in this matter, sha'n't be son. Go against me in what I've set my on, and you'll there's the to pay, that's all. But don't let us angry, it's Sunday for one thing, and it's a sin; and that, I've not my story."
For Osborne had taken up his book again, and under of reading, was to himself. He put it away at his father's request.
"As I was saying, Gibson said, when we spoke about it, that there was nothing on any of you four, and that if there was, he would let me know; so by-and-by he comes and tells me of this."
"Of what—I don't how it has gone?"
There was a in Osborne's voice the Squire did not like; and he angrily.
"Of this, to be sure—of what I'm telling you—of Roger going and making love to this girl, that day he left, after he had gone away from here, and was waiting for the 'Umpire' in Hollingford. One would think you at times, Osborne."
"I can only say that these are new to me; you mentioned them before, I you."
"Well; mind I did or not. I'm sure I said Roger was to Miss Kirkpatrick, and be to her; and you might have all the as a of course."
"Possibly," said Osborne, politely. "May I ask if Miss Kirkpatrick, who appeared to me to be a very girl, to Roger's affection?"
"Fast enough, I'll be bound," said the Squire, sulkily. "A Hamley of Hamley isn't to be had every day. Now, I'll tell you what, Osborne, you're the only one left in the market, and I want to the old family up again. Don't go against me in this; it will my if you do."
"Father, don't talk so," said Osborne. "I'll do anything I can to you, except—"
"Except the only thing I've set my on your doing."
"Well, well, let it alone for the present. There's no question of my marrying just at this moment. I'm out of health, and I'm not up to going into society, and meeting ladies and all that of thing, if I had an opening into society."
"You should have an opening fast enough. There'll be more money in, in a year or two, God. And as for your health, why, what's to make you well, if you over the fire all day, and away from a good as if it were poison?"
"So it is to me," said Osborne, languidly, playing with his book as if he wanted to end the and take it up again. The Squire saw the movements, and them.
"Well," said he, "I'll go and have a talk with Will about old Black Bess. It's Sunday work enough, after a animal's and pains."
But after his father had left the room Osborne did not take up his book again. He it on the table by him, in his chair, and his with his hand. He was in a of health which him about many things, though, least of all, about what was most in danger. The long of his marriage from his father the of it far, more difficult than it would have been at first. Unsupported by Roger, how he it all to one so as the Squire? how tell of the temptation, the marriage, the happiness, and alas! the suffering?—for Osborne had suffered, and did suffer, in the in which he had himself. He saw no way out of it all, by the one of which he himself incapable. So with a he himself to his book again. Everything to come in his way, and he was not in to overcome obstacles. The only step he took in of what he had from his father, was to over to Hollingford the day after he had the news, and go to see Cynthia and the Gibsons. He had not been there for a long time; weather and had him. He them full of and about Cynthia's visit to London; and she herself not at all in the mood proper to respond to his of how he was in his brother's joy. Indeed, it was so long after the time, that Cynthia that to him the was recent, and that the of his had not yet passed away. With her a little on one side, she was the of a of ribbons, when he began, in a low whisper, and her as he spoke,—"Cynthia—I may call you Cynthia now, mayn't I?—I'm so of this news; I've only just of it, but I'm so glad!"
"What news do you mean?" She had her suspicions; but she was to think that from one person her was to another and another, till, in fact, it was no at all. Still, Cynthia always her when she chose. "Why are you to calling me Cynthia now?" she on, smiling. "The terrible word has out from your before, do you know?"
This light way of taking his did not Osborne, who was in a mood, and for a minute or so he silent. Then, having making her of ribbon, she to him, and in a quick low voice, to take of a her mother and Molly,—
"I think I can why you that little speech just now. But do you know you ought not to have been told? And, moreover, are not at the of—of—well—an engagement. He would not have it so. Now, I sha'n't say any more; and you must not. Pray you ought not to have known; it is my own secret, and I particularly it not to be spoken about; and I don't like its being so talked about. Oh, the of water through one small hole!"
And then she into the talk of the other two, making the general. Osborne was at the non-success of his congratulations; he had pictured to himself the of a love-sick girl, full of rapture, and of a confidant. He little Cynthia's nature. The more she that she was called upon for a of emotion, the less would she show; and her were under the of her will. He had an to come and see her; and now he in his chair, and a little dispirited.
"You dear man," said Mrs. Gibson, up to him with her soft, manner; "how you look! Do take some of that eau-de-Cologne and your forehead. This weather me too. 'Primavera' I think the Italians call it. But it is very trying for constitutions, as much from its as from its of temperature. It makes me perpetually; but then I am so sensitive. Dear Lady Cumnor always used to say I was like a thermometer. You've how she has been?"
"No," said Osborne, not very much either.
"Oh, yes, she is now; but the about her has me so: here by what are, of course, my duties, but away from all intelligence, and not what the next post might bring."
"Where was she then?" asked Osborne, a little more sympathetic.
"At Spa. Such a off! Three days' post! Can't you the trial? Living with her as I did for years; up in the family as I was."
"But Lady Harriet said, in her last letter, that they she would be than she had been for years," said Molly, innocently.
"Yes—Lady Harriet—of course—every one who Lady Harriet that she is of too a for her to be perfectly on. Altogether—strangers are often by Lady Harriet—she has an off-hand manner which takes them in; but she not she says."
"We will she in this instance," said Cynthia, shortly. "They're in London now, and Lady Cumnor hasn't from the journey."
"They say so," said Mrs. Gibson, her head, and an on the word "say." "I am over-anxious, but I wish—I wish I see and judge for myself. It would be the only way of my anxiety. I almost think I shall go up with you, Cynthia, for a day or two, just to see her with my own eyes. I don't like your alone either. We will think about it, and you shall to Mr. Kirkpatrick, and it, if we upon it. You can tell him of my anxiety; and it will be only your for a of nights."
