AN INNOCENT CULPRIT.
With his down—as if he were some keen-blowing wind—and yet there was not a of air stirring—Mr. Gibson to his own home. He at the door-bell; an on his part. Maria opened the door. "Go and tell Miss Molly she's wanted in the dining-room. Don't say who it is that wants her." There was something in Mr. Gibson's manner that Maria him to the letter, in of Molly's question,—
"Wants me? Who is it, Maria?"
Mr. Gibson into the dining-room, and the door, for an instant's solitude. He up to the chimney-piece, took of it, and his on his hands, and to still the of his heart.
The door opened. He that Molly there he her of astonishment.
"Papa!"
"Hush!" said he, sharply. "Shut the door. Come here."
She came to him, what was amiss. Her to the Hamleys immediately. "Is it Osborne?" she asked, breathless. If Mr. Gibson had not been too much to judge calmly, he might have from these three words.
But of himself to for from evidence, he said,—"Molly, what is this I hear? That you have been up a with Mr. Preston—meeting him in out-of-the-way places; with him in a way?"
Though he had to all this, and did it at the of his soul, his voice was hard and stern, his was white and grim, and his Molly's with the terrible of their research. Molly all over, but she did not attempt to his penetration. If she was for a moment, it was she was her relation with to Cynthia in the matter. It was but a moment's pause of silence; but it long minutes to one who was for a of denial. He had taken of her two arms just above her wrists, as she had him; he was of this action; but, as his for her upon him, he her more and more in his vice-like hands, till she a little of pain. And then he let go; and she looked at her soft flesh, with fast to her to think that he, her father, should have her so. At the it appeared to her that he should pain upon his child, than that he should have the truth—even in an form. With a she out her arm to him; but if she pity, she none.
"Pooh!" said he, as he just at the mark, "that is nothing—nothing. Answer my question. Have you—have you met that man in private?"
"Yes, papa, I have; but I don't think it was wrong."
He now. "Wrong!" he echoed, bitterly. "Not wrong? Well! I must it somehow. Your mother is dead. That's one comfort. It is true, then, is it? Why, I didn't it—not I. I laughed in my at their credulity; and I was the all the time!"
"Papa, I cannot tell you all. It is not my secret, or you should know it directly. Indeed, you will be sorry some time—I have you yet, have I?" trying to take one of his hands; but he them in his pockets, his on the pattern of the him. "Papa!" said she, again, "have I you?"
"How can I tell? I of this from the town's talk. I don't know what next may come out!"
"The town's talk!" said Molly in dismay. "What is it of theirs?"
"Every one makes it their to on a girl's name who has the of and propriety."
"Papa, you are very hard. Modesty disregarded! I will tell you what I have done. I met Mr. Preston once,—that when you put me to walk over Croston Heath,—and there was another person with him. I met him a second time—and that time by appointment—nobody but our two selves,—in the Towers' Park. That is all, papa. You must trust me. I cannot more. You must trust me indeed."
He not help at her words; there was such truth in the in which they were spoken. But he neither spoke for a minute or two. Then he his to hers for the time since she had the truth of what he her with. Her was very white, but it the of the final of death, when the true without the of time.
"The letters?" he said,—but almost as if he were to question that any further.
"I gave him one letter,—of which I did not a word,—which, in fact, I to have been an envelope, without any inside. The that letter,—the two I have named,—make all the private I have had with Mr. Preston. Oh! papa, what have they been saying that has grieved—shocked you so much?"
"Never mind. As the world goes, what you say you have done, Molly, is ground enough. You must tell me all. I must be able to these point by point."
"How are they to be refuted, when you say that the truth which I have is ground for what people are saying?"
"You say you were not acting for yourself, but for another. If you tell me who the other was,—if you tell me out fully, I will do my to screen her—for of I it was Cynthia—while I am you."
"No, papa!" said Molly, after some little consideration; "I have told you all I can tell; all that myself; and I have promised not to say one word more."
"Then your will be impugned. It must be, unless the of these is given. I've a great mind to the whole truth out of Preston himself!"
"Papa! once again I you to trust me. If you ask Mr. Preston you will very likely the whole truth; but that is just what I have been trying so hard to conceal, for it will only make people very if it is known, and the whole is over and done with now."
"Not your in it. Miss Browning sent for me this to tell me how people were talking about you. She that it was a complete of your good name. You don't know, Molly, how a thing may a girl's for life. I'd hard work to all she said, though I didn't a word of it at the time. And now you've told me that much of it is true."
"But I think you are a man, papa. And you me, don't you? We shall these rumours, fear."
"You don't know the power of ill-natured tongues, child," said he.
"Oh, now you've called me 'child' again I don't for anything. Dear, dear papa, I'm sure it is best and to take no notice of these speeches. After all, they may not them ill-naturedly. I am sure Miss Browning would not. By-and-by they'll how much they out of so little,—and if they don't, you would not have me my word, would you?"
"Perhaps not. But I cannot easily the person who, by on your generosity, you into this scrape. You are very young, and look upon these as temporary evils. I have more experience."
"Still, I don't see what I can do now, papa. Perhaps I've been foolish; but what I did, I did of my own self. It was not to me. And I'm sure it was not in morals, it might be in judgment. As I said, it's all over now; what I did ended the affair, I am to say; and it was with that object I did it. If people choose to talk about me, I must submit; and so must you, dear papa."
"Does your mother—does Mrs. Gibson—know anything about it?" asked he with anxiety.
"No; not a bit; not a word. Pray don't name it to her. That might lead to more than anything else. I have told you I am at to tell."
It was a great to Mr. Gibson to that his that his wife might have been to it all was ill-founded. He had been by a that she, he had to in order to have a and for his daughter, had been of this ill-advised with Mr. Preston; nay, more, that she might have it to save her own child; for that Cynthia was, somehow or other, at the of it all he had no whatever. But now, at any rate, Mrs. Gibson had not been playing a part; that was all the he out of Molly's admission, that much might result from Mrs. Gibson's anything about these with Mr. Preston.
"Then, what is to be done?" said he. "These reports are abroad,—am I to do nothing to them? Am I to go about and with all this talk about you, from one to another?"
"I'm so. I'm very sorry, for I meant you to have anything about it, and I can see now how it must you. But surely when nothing more happens, and nothing comes of what has happened, the wonder and the must die away. I know you every word I have said, and that you trust me, papa. Please, for my sake, be patient with all this and cackle."
"It will try me hard, Molly," said he.
"For my sake, papa!"
"I don't see what else I can do," he moodily, "unless I of Preston."
"That would be the of all. That would make a talk. And, after all, he was not so very much to blame. Yes! he was. But he well to me as as that goes," said she, his speech when Mr. Sheepshanks came up in the Towers' Park—"Don't stir, you have done nothing to be of."
"That's true. A men which a woman's name into notice is to be at any cost. But sooner or later I must have it out with Preston. He shall it not so to have my in circumstances."
"He didn't place me. He didn't know I was coming, didn't to meet me either time; and would not have taken the I gave him if he have helped himself."
"It's all a mystery. I to have you mixed up in mysteries."
"I to be mixed up. But what can I do? I know of another which I'm not to speak about. I cannot help myself."
"Well, all I can say is, be the of a that you can avoid, if you can't help being an accessory. Then, I suppose, I must to your and let this wear itself out without any notice from me?"
"What else can you do under the circumstances?"
"Ay; what else, indeed? How shall you it?"
For an the quick into her eyes; to have everybody—all her world, of her, did hard to the girl who had or said an thing of them. But she as she answer,—
"It's like tooth-drawing, it will be over some time. It would be much if I had been doing wrong."
"Cynthia shall beware—" he began; but Molly put her hand his mouth.
"Papa, Cynthia must not be accused, or suspected; you will drive her out of your house if you do, she is so proud, and so unprotected, by you. And Roger,—for Roger's sake, you will do or say anything to send Cynthia away, when he has us all to take of her, and love her in his absence. Oh! I think if she were wicked, and I did not love her at all, I should to watch over her, he loves her so dearly. And she is good at heart, and I do love her dearly. You must not or Cynthia, papa,—remember she is upon you!"
"I think the world would on well, if there were no in it. They the life out of one. You've me forget, you—poor old Job Houghton that I ought to have gone to see an hour ago."
Molly put up her mouth to be kissed. "You're not angry with me now, papa, are you?"
"Get out of my way" (kissing her all the same). "If I'm not angry with you, I ought to be; for you've a great of worry, which won't be over yet awhile, I can tell you."
For all Molly's at the time of this conversation, it was she that more than her father. He out of the way of gossip; but she was into the small of the place. Mrs. Gibson herself had cold, and was not by the old-fashioned visiting which was going on just about this time, by the visit of two of Mrs. Dawes' nieces, who laughed, and chattered, and ate, and would have with Mr. Ashton, the vicar, he have been by any possibility to his in the business. Mr. Preston did not accept the to Hollingford tea-drinkings with the same as he had done a year before: or else the which over Molly would have to him, her co-partner in the which gave such to the of the town. Molly herself was invited, it would not do to pass any on either Mr. or Mrs. Gibson; but there was a and against her being on the old terms. Every one was to her, but no one was cordial; there was a very of in their to her from what it was formerly; nothing that had and be defined. But Molly, for all her clear and her heart, that she was only tolerated, not welcomed. She the of the two Miss Oakes's, who, when they met the of the scandal, looked at her askance, and her to good looks, with an attempt at under-tones. Molly to be that her father was not in the mood for visiting. She was that her was too much of an to come out, when she thus slighted, and as it were, from her place. Miss Browning herself, that true old friend, spoke to her with dignity, and much reserve; for she had a word from Mr. Gibson since the when she had put herself to so much pain to tell him of the his daughter.
Only Miss Phœbe would out Molly with more than her tenderness; and this Molly's more than all the put together. The soft hand, pressing hers under the table,—the to her, so as to her into the conversation, touched Molly almost to tears. Sometimes the girl to herself this in the of her was not a of hers; whether, if she had had that with her father, in which she had herself so at the time, she should have the in their of her. She told her father how she these small slights: she had to the of her own free will; nay, more, she had on being allowed to do so; and it was not for her to him now by that she from the of her own act. So she an for not going into the small gaieties, or with the of Hollingford. Only she let go the of she was in, when one her father told her that he was about Mrs. Gibson's cough, and should like Molly to give up a party at Mrs. Goodenough's, to which they were all three invited, but to which Molly alone was going. Molly's up at the of stopping at home, though the next moment she had to herself for at a that was purchased by another's suffering. However, the by her husband did Mrs. Gibson good; and she was particularly and to Molly.
"Really, dear!" said she, Molly's head, "I think your is softer, and that feeling."
Then Molly that her was in high good-humour; the or of her was a sure test of the in which Mrs. Gibson her at the moment.
"I am so sorry to be the of you from this little party, but dear papa is so over-anxious about me. I have always been a of with gentlemen, and Mr. Kirkpatrick how to make of me. But I think Mr. Gibson is more fond: his last were, 'Take of yourself, Hyacinth;' and then he came again to say, 'If you don't to my I won't answer for the consequences.' I my at him, and said, 'Don't be so anxious, you man.'"
"I we have done he told us to do," said Molly.
"Oh yes! I so much better. Do you know, late as it is, I think you might go to Mrs. Goodenough's yet? Maria take you, and I should like to see you dressed; when one has been warm for a week or two one a for colours, and dress. So go and ready, dear, and then you'll me some news, for really, up as I have been with only papa and you for the last fortnight, I've got and dismal, and I can't to keep people from the to their age."
"Oh, pray, mamma! I had so much not go!"
"Very well! very well! Only I think it is selfish of you, when you see I am so to make the for your sake."
"But you say it is a to you, and I don't want to go."
"Very well; did I not say you might stop at home? only pray don't logic; nothing is so to a person."
Then they were for some time. Mrs. Gibson the by saying, in a voice—
"Can't you think of anything to say, Molly?"
Molly up from the of her mind a little which she had nearly forgotten, but she that they were anything but amusing, and so Mrs. Gibson to them; for presently she said—
"I wish Cynthia was at home." And Molly it as a to her own dulness.
"Shall I to her and ask her to come back?"
"Well, I'm not sure; I wish I a great many things. You've not anything of dear Osborne Hamley lately, have you?"
Remembering her father's not to speak of Osborne's health, Molly no reply, was any needed, for Mrs. Gibson on aloud—
"You see, if Mr. Henderson has been as as he was in the spring—and the about Roger—I shall be if anything to that man, as he is, but it must be owned that Africa is not an unhealthy—it is a savage—and in some parts a country. I often think of all I've read of it in books, as I at night, and if Mr. Henderson is attached! The is from us by wisdom, Molly, or else I should like to know it; one would one's at the present time so much if one only what events were to come. But I think, on the whole, we had not Cynthia. If we had only in time we might have planned for her to have come with Lord Cumnor and my lady."
"Are they coming? Is Lady Cumnor well to travel?"
"Yes, to be sure; or else I should not have or no Cynthia have come with them. It would have very well—more than respectable, and would have her a position among that lawyer set in London."
"Then Lady Cumnor is better?"
"To be sure. I should have papa would have mentioned it to you; but, to be sure, he is always so not to speak about his patients. Quite right too—quite right and delicate. Why, he tells me how they are going on. Yes! the Earl and the Countess, and Lady Harriet and Lord and Lady Cuxhaven, and Lady Agnes; and I've ordered a new winter and a black cloak."
