"TROUBLES NEVER COME ALONE."
Illustrationolly had her out-of-door on, and she away as she was bidden. She her weight of and along till she came to a field, not so very off,—where she had the of since she was a child; and there, under the hedge-bank, she down, her in her hands, and all over as she of Cynthia's misery, which she might not try to touch or assuage. She how long she there, but it was long past lunch-time when once again she up to her room. The door opposite was open wide,—Cynthia had the chamber. Molly her dress and into the drawing-room. Cynthia and her mother there in the of an neutrality. Cynthia's looked of stone, for colour and rigidity; but she was away as if nothing had occurred. Not so Mrs. Gibson; her marks of tears, and she looked up and Molly's entrance with a notice. Cynthia on as though she had the opening of the door, or the of Molly's dress. Molly took up a book,—not to read, but to have the of some which should not conversation.
There was no the of the that ensued. Molly to it was some old that upon their and them still. At length Cynthia spoke, but she had to again her came clear.
"I wish you to know that all is at an end me and Roger Hamley."
Molly's book upon her knees; with open and she to in Cynthia's meaning. Mrs. Gibson spoke querulously, as if injured,—
"I have this if it had three months ago,—when you were in London; but now it's just nonsense, Cynthia, and you know you don't it!"
Cynthia did not reply; did the look on her when Molly spoke at last,—
"Cynthia—think of him! It will his heart!"
"No!" said Cynthia, "it will not. But if it did I cannot help it."
"All this talk will soon pass away!" said Molly; "and when he the truth from your own self—"
"From my own self he shall it. I do not love him well to go through the of having to myself,—to that he will me in his good opinion. Confession may be—well! I can it pleasant—but it may be an of mind if one makes it to some people,—to some person,—and it may not be a to for forgiveness. I cannot tell. All I know is,—and I know it clearly, and will act upon it inflexibly—that—" And here she stopped short.
"I think you might your sentence," said her mother, after a of five seconds.
"I cannot to myself to Roger Hamley. I will not submit to his less well of me than he has done,—however his may have been. I would see him again, for these two reasons. And the truth is, I do not love him. I like him, I respect him; but I will not him. I have to tell him so. That was as a to myself, for when or where the will him— And I have to old Mr. Hamley. The is the one good thing come out of it all. It is such a to free again. It me so to think of up to his goodness. 'Extenuate my conduct!'" she concluded, Mr. Gibson's words. Yet when Mr. Gibson came home, after a dinner, she asked to speak with him, alone, in his consulting-room; and there the of herself which she had to Molly many before. When she had ended, she said:
"And now, Mr. Gibson,—I still you like a friend,—help me to some home away, where all the talking and tells me of cannot me and me. It may be to for people's good opinion,—but it is me, and I cannot myself. You, Molly,—all the people in the town,—I haven't the patience to live through the nine days' wonder.—I want to go away and be a governess."
"But, my dear Cynthia,—how soon Roger will be back,—a tower of strength!"
"Has not told you I have it all off with Roger? I this morning. I to his father. That will to-morrow. I to Roger. If he that letter, I to be away by that time; in Russia may be."
"Nonsense. An like yours cannot be off, by consent. You've only others a great of pain without yourself. Nor will you wish it in a month's time. When you come to think calmly, you'll be to think of the and support of such a husband as Roger. You have been in fault, and have at first,—perhaps afterwards; but you don't want your husband to think you faultless?"
"Yes, I do," said Cynthia. "At any rate, my lover must think me so. And it is just I do not love him as so light a thing as I love, that I that I couldn't to have to tell him I'm sorry, and him like a child to be and forgiven."
"But here you are, just in such a position me, Cynthia!"
"Yes! but I love you than Roger; I've often told Molly so. And I would have told you, if I hadn't and to you all long. I see if the of it all came up your mind; I see it in your eyes; I should know it by instinct. I have a for reading the of others when they to me. I almost the idea of Roger me by his own standard, which wasn't for me, and me at last."
"Then I do it's right for you to it off," said Mr. Gibson, almost as if he were to himself. "That poor lad! But it will be best for him too. And he'll over it. He has a good heart. Poor old Roger!"
For a moment Cynthia's after the object out of her grasp,—Roger's love for the a treasure; but, again, she that in its of high esteem, as well as of regard, it would no longer be hers; and for the which she herself had she it away, and would none of it. Yet often in after years, when it was too late, she and to the of "what would have been."
"Still, take till to-morrow you act upon your decision," said Mr. Gibson, slowly. "What you have into have been at first,—leading you into much deceit, I grant."
"Don't give the trouble to the of blackness," said Cynthia, bitterly. "I'm not so but what I know them all than any one can tell me. And as for my I upon it at once. It may be long Roger my letter,—but I he is sure to it at last,—and, as I said, I have let his father know; it won't him! Oh, sir, I think if I had been up I shouldn't have had the angry I have. Now! No, don't! I don't want comfort. I can't it. I should always have wanted and worship, and men's good opinion. Those gossips! To visit Molly with their hard words! Oh, dear! I think life is very dreary."
She put her on her hands; out as well as bodily. So Mr. Gibson thought. He as if much speech from him would only add to her excitement, and make her worse. He left the room, and called Molly, from where she was sitting, dolefully. "Go to Cynthia!" he whispered, and Molly went. She took Cynthia into her arms with power, and her against her own breast, as if the one had been a mother, and the other a child.
"Oh, my darling!" she murmured. "I do so love you, dear, dear Cynthia!" and she her hair, and her eyelids; Cynthia all the while, till she started up with a new idea, and looking Molly in the face, she said,—
"Molly, Roger will you! See if it isn't so! You two good—"
But Molly pushed her away with a of repulsion. "Don't!" she said. She was with and indignation. "Your husband this morning! Mine to-night! What do you take him for?"
"A man!" Cynthia. "And therefore, if you won't let me call him changeable, I'll coin a word and call him consolable!" But Molly gave her no smile. At this moment, the Maria entered the consulting-room, where the two girls were. She had a look.
"Isn't master here?" asked she, as if she her eyes.
"No!" said Cynthia. "I him go out. I him the door not five minutes ago."
"Oh, dear!" said Maria. "And there's a man come on from Hamley Hall, and he says as Mr. Osborne is dead, and that master must go off to the Squire away."
"Osborne Hamley dead!" said Cynthia, in surprise. Molly was out at the door, the messenger through the dusk, into the stable-yard, where the on his dark horse, with foam, visible by the on the steps near, where it had been left by the servants, who were at this news of the man who had their master's house, so full of and winsomeness. Molly up to the man, were in of the he had left at the place he had come from.
She her hand on the skin of the horse's shoulder; the man started.
"Is the doctor coming, Miss?" For he saw who it was by the light.
"He is dead, is he not?" asked Molly, in a low voice.
"I'm he is,—leastways, there's no according to what they said. But I've hard! there may be a chance. Is the doctor coming, Miss?"
"He is gone out. They are him, I believe. I will go myself. Oh! the old Squire!" She into the kitchen—went over the house with to news of her father's whereabouts. The no more than she did. Neither she they had what Cynthia, quick of perception, had done. The of the door had on ears, as as others were concerned. Upstairs Molly to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Gibson at the door, to the in the house.
"What is it, Molly? Why, how white you look, child!"
"Where's papa?"
"Gone out. What's the matter?"
"Where?"
"How should I know? I was asleep; Jenny came on her way to the bedrooms; she's a girl who to her work and Maria takes of her."
"Jenny, Jenny!" Molly, at the delay.
"Don't shout, dear,—ring the bell. What can be the matter?"
"Oh, Jenny!" said Molly, half-way up the stairs to meet her, "who wanted papa?"
Cynthia came to join the group; she too had been looking for or of Mr. Gibson.
"What is the matter?" said Mrs. Gibson. "Can nobody speak and answer a question?"
"Osborne Hamley is dead!" said Cynthia, gravely.
"Dead! Osborne! Poor fellow! I it would be so, though,—I was sure of it. But Mr. Gibson can do nothing if he's dead. Poor man! I wonder where Roger is now? He ought to come home."
Jenny had been for into the drawing-room of Maria, place it was, and so had the she had. To Molly's questions her had been unsatisfactory. A man had come to the door—she not see who it was—she had not asked his name: he wanted to speak to master,—master had in a hurry, and only stopped to his hat.
"He will not be long away," Molly, "or he would have left word where he was going. But oh! the father all alone!" And then a came into her head, which she upon straight. "Go to James, tell him to put the side-saddle I had in November on Nora Creina. Don't cry, Jenny. There's no time for that. No one is angry with you. Run!"
So into the of Molly came, in her jacket and skirt; quick in her eyes; about the of her mouth.
"Why, what in the world," said Mrs. Gibson—"Molly, what are you about?" But Cynthia had it at a glance, and was Molly's dress, as she passed along.
"I am going. I must go. I cannot to think of him alone. When papa comes he is sure to go to Hamley, and if I am not wanted, I can come with him." She Mrs. Gibson's voice her in remonstrance, but she did not for words. She had to wait in the stable-yard, and she how the messenger to eat and drink the food and out to him by the servants. Her out had the talk,—the questions and to and fro; but she the words, "all the grass," and "the Squire would let none on us touch him: he took him up as if he was a baby; he had to many a time, and once he him on the ground; but still he him in his arms; but we we should ne'er have him up again—him and the body."
"The body!"
Molly had that Osborne was till she those words. They quick under the of the trees, but when they speed, to go up a brow, or to give their breath, Molly those two little again in her ears; and said them over again to herself, in of the truth into her sense. But when they came in of the square of the house, in the moonlight—the moon had by this time—Molly at her breath, and for an she she go in, and the presence in that dwelling. One yellow light steadily, the with its coarseness. The man pointed it out: it was almost the word he had spoken since they had left Hollingford.
"It's the old nursery. They him there. The Squire at the stair-foot, and they took him to the place. I'll be for it the Squire is there hisself, and old Robin too. They him, as a man among beasts, till th' regular doctor came."
Molly from her seat the man to help her. She up her skirts and did not again to think of what was her. She ran along the once familiar turns, and up the stairs, and through the doors, till she came to the last; then she stopped and listened. It was a silence. She opened the door:—the Squire was alone at the of the bed, the man's hand, and looking him at vacancy. He did not or move, so much as an eyelid, at Molly's entrance. The truth had entered his this, and he that no doctor, be he so cunning, could, with all his striving, put the into that again. Molly came up to him with the steps, the most that she could. She did not speak, for she did not know what to say. She that he had no more from skill, so what was the use of speaking of her father and the in his coming? After a moment's pause, by the old man's side, she to the floor, and sat at his feet. Possibly her presence might have some in it; but of was as a thing. He must have been aware of her being there, but he took no notice. There they sate, and still, he in his chair, she on the floor; the man, the sheet, for a third. She that she must have the father in his of the face, now more than half, but not fully, up out of sight. Time had so without measure, had so noiseless as it did to Molly, there. In the of her she a step a staircase, slowly, nearer. She it not to be her father's, and that was all she about. Nearer and nearer—close to the of the door—a pause, and a soft tap. The great by her at the sound. Molly rose and to the door: it was Robinson, the old butler, in his hand a of soup.
"God you, Miss," said he; "make him touch a o' this: he's gone since without food, and it's past one in the now."
He the cover, and Molly took the with her to her place at the Squire's side. She did not speak, for she did not well know what to say, or how to present this want of nature one so in grief. But she put a to his lips, and touched them with the food, as if he had been a child, and she the nurse; and he took the of the soup. But in a minute he said, with a of cry, and almost the Molly held, by his as he pointed to the bed,—
"He will eat again—never."
Then he himself across the corpse, and in such a terrible manner that Molly he also should die—should his there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of her tears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon, looking through the window, with stare. Her father by them either of them was aware.
"Go downstairs, Molly," said he gravely; but he her as she rose. "Go into the dining-room." Now she the from all her self-control. She with as she along the passages. It to her as if she should meet Osborne, and it all explained; how he came to die,—what he now and and her to do. She did to the dining-room,—the last steps with a of terror,—senseless terror of what might be her; and there she supper out, and lit, and Robinson about some wine. She wanted to cry; to into some place, and away her over-excitement; but she do so there. She only very much tired, and to for nothing in this world any more. But of life came when she Robinson a to her as she sat in the great leather easy-chair, to which she had gone as to a place of rest.
"Drink, Miss. It's good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was to eat a bit. Says he, 'My may have to here, Mr. Robinson, and she's for the work. Persuade her to eat something, or she'll utterly.' Those was his very words."
Molly did not say anything. She had not energy for resistance. She and she ate at the old servant's bidding; and then she asked him to her alone, and to her easy-chair and let herself cry, and so her heart.
