UNLOOKED-FOR ARRIVALS.
Robinson opened the door for Molly almost the had up at the Hall, and told her that the Squire had been very for her return, and had more than once sent him to an window, from which a of the hill-road Hollingford and Hamley be caught, to know if the was not yet in sight. Molly into the drawing-room. The Squire was in the middle of the her—in fact, to go out and meet her, but by a of etiquette, which his moving about as in that house of mourning. He a paper in his hands, which were with and emotion; and four or five open were on a table near him.
"It's all true," he began; "she's his wife, and he's her husband—was her husband—that's the word for it—was! Poor lad! lad! it's cost him a deal. Pray God, it wasn't my fault. Read this, my dear. It's a certificate. It's all regular—Osborne Hamley to Marie-Aimée Scherer,—parish-church and all, and witnessed. Oh, dear!" He in the nearest chair and groaned. Molly took a seat by him, and read the legal paper, the of which was not needed to her of the of the marriage. She it in her hand after she had reading it, waiting for the Squire's next words; for he talking to himself in sentences. "Ay, ay! that comes o' temper, and crabbedness. She was the only one as could,—and I've been since she was gone. Worse! worse! and see what it has come to! He was of me—ay—afraid. That's the truth of it—afraid. And it him keep all to himself, and killed him. They may call it heart-disease—O my lad, my lad, I know now; but it's too late—that's the of it—too late, too late!" He his face, and moved himself and till Molly it no longer.
"There are some letters," said she: "may I read any of them?" At another time she would not have asked; but she was to it now by her of the of the old man.
"Ay, read 'em, read 'em," said he. "Maybe you can. I can only out a word here and there. I put 'em there for you to look at; and tell me what is in 'em."
Molly's knowledge of French of the present day was not so great as her knowledge of the French of the Mémoires de Sully, and neither the the of the was of the best; but she managed to into good English some of love, and to Osborne's will—as if his was infallible,—and of in his purposes,—little in "little language" that home to the Squire's heart. Perhaps if Molly had read French more easily she might not have them into such touching, homely, words. Here and there, there were in English; these the hungry-hearted Squire had read while waiting for Molly's return. Every time she stopped, he said, "Go on." He his shaded, and only those two at every pause. She got up to some more of Aimée's letters. In the papers, she came upon one in particular. "Have you this, sir? This certificate of baptism" (reading aloud) "of Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley, June 21, 183—, child of Osborne Hamley and Marie-Aimée his wife—"
"Give it me," said the Squire, his voice now, and his hand. "'Roger,' that's me, 'Stephen,' that's my old father: he died when he was not so old as I am; but I've always on him as very old. He was main and of Osborne, when he was a little one. It's good of the to have on my father Stephen. Ay! that was his name. And Osborne—Osborne Hamley! One Osborne Hamley on his bed—and t'other—t'other I've seen, and on till to-day. He must be called Osborne, Molly. There is a Roger—there's two for that matter; but one is a good-for-nothing old man; and there's an Osborne any more, unless this little thing is called Osborne; we'll have him here, and a nurse for him; and make his mother for life in her own country. I'll keep this, Molly. You're a good for it. Osborne Hamley! And if God will give me grace, he shall a word from me—never! He shan't be of me. Oh, my Osborne, my Osborne" (he out), "do you know now how and is my for every hard word as I spoke to you? Do you know now how I loved you—my boy—my boy?"
From the of the letters, Molly if the mother would consent, so easily as the Squire to expect, to be from her child; the were not very wise, (though of this Molly thought), but a full of love spoke in every line. Still, it was not for Molly to talk of this of hers just then; but to on the and of the little Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley. She let the Squire himself in as to the particulars of every event, helping him out in conjectures; and of them, from their knowledge of possibilities, the most curious, fantastic, and at the truth. And so that day passed over, and the night came.
There were not many people who had any to be to the funeral, and of these Mr. Gibson and the Squire's man of had taken charge. But when Mr. Gibson came, early on the morning, Molly the question to him, which had itself to her mind, though not to the Squire's, what of her should be sent to the widow, near Winchester, and waiting, if not for his who in his home, at least for his letters. One from her had already come, in her handwriting, to the post-office to which all her were sent, but of they at the Hall nothing of this.
"She must be told," said Mr. Gibson, musing.
"Yes, she must," his daughter. "But how?"
"A day or two of waiting will do no harm," said he, almost as if he was to the of the problem. "It will make her anxious, thing, and all of possibilities will themselves to her mind—amongst them the truth; it will be a of preparation."
"For what? Something must be done at last," said Molly.
"Yes; true. Suppose you write, and say he's very ill; to-morrow. I they've themselves in daily postage, and then she'll have had three days' silence. You say how you come to know all you do about it; I think she ought to know he is very ill—in great danger, if you like: and you can it up next day with the full truth. I wouldn't worry the Squire about it. After the we will have a talk about the child."
"She will part with it," said Molly.
"Whew! Till I see the woman I can't tell," said her father; "some would. It will be well provided for, according to what you say. And she is a foreigner, and may very likely wish to go to her own people and kindred. There's much to be said on sides."
"So you always say, papa. But in this case I think you'll I'm right. I judge from her letters; but I think I'm right."
"So you always say, daughter. Time will show. So the child is a boy? Mrs. Gibson told me particularly to ask. It will go to her to Cynthia's of Roger. But it is as well for of them, though of he will be a long time he thinks so. They were not to each other. Poor Roger! It was hard work to him yesterday; and who what may have of him! Well, well! one has to through the world somehow. I'm glad, however, this little has up to be the heir. I shouldn't have liked the property to go to the Irish Hamleys, who are the next heirs, as Osborne once told me. Now that letter, Molly, to the little Frenchwoman out yonder. It will prepare her for it; and we must think a how to her the shock, for Osborne's sake."
The this was difficult work for Molly, and she up two or three copies she manage it to her satisfaction; and at last, in of doing it better, she sent it off without re-reading it. The next day was easier; the of Osborne's death was told and tenderly. But when this second was sent off, Molly's to for the creature, of her husband, in a land, and he at a from her, and without her having had the of his dear on her memory by one last long look. With her full of the unknown Aimée, Molly talked much about her that day to the Squire. He would for to any conjecture, wild, about the grandchild, but away from all about "the Frenchwoman," as he called her; not unkindly, but to his mind she was the Frenchwoman—chattering, dark-eyed, demonstrative, and possibly rouged. He would her with respect as his son's widow, and would try not to think upon the female in which he believed. He would make her an to the of his duty: but he and he might be called upon to see her. His solicitor, Gibson, and everybody, should be called upon to a of against that danger.
And all this time a little grey-eyed woman was making her way,—not him, but the son, as yet she to be her husband. She she was acting in of his wish; but he had her with any of his own about his health; and she, with life, had death to away one so beloved. He was ill—very ill, the from the girl said that; but Aimée had nursed her parents, and what was. The French doctor had her skill and neat-handedness as a nurse, and if she had been the of women, was he not her husband—her all? And was she not his wife, place was by his pillow? So, without as much as has been here given, Aimée her preparations, the that would overflow her eyes, and into the little she was packing so neatly. And by her side, on the ground, the child, now nearly two years old; and for him Aimée had always a and a word. Her loved her and her; and the woman was of an age to have had of humankind. Aimée had told her that her husband was ill, and the had of the history to be aware that as yet Aimée was not his wife. But she with the of her to go to him directly, he was. Caution comes from education of one or another, and Aimée was not by warnings; only the woman hard for the child to be left. "He was such company," she said; "and he would so his mother in her journeyings; and maybe his father would be too to see him." To which Aimée replied, "Good company for you, but for me. A woman is with her own child" (which was not true; but there was truth in it to make it by and servant), "and if Monsieur for anything, he would to the of his little son." So Aimée the coach to London at the nearest cross-road, Martha by as and friend to see her off, and her in the large child, already with at the of the horses. There was a "lingerie" shop, by a Frenchwoman, Aimée had in the days when she was a London nursemaid, and she herself, than to an hotel, to the night-hours that the Birmingham coach started at early morning. She slept or on a sofa in the parlour, for spare-bed there was none; but Madame Pauline came in with a good cup of coffee for the mother, and of "soupe blanche" for the boy; and they off again into the wide world, only of, only the "him," who was to both. Aimée the of the name of the village where Osborne had often told her that he from the coach to walk home; and though she have the word, yet she spoke it with slow to the guard, him in her English when they should arrive there? Not till four o'clock. Alas! and what might then! Once with him she would have no fear; she was sure that she him round; but what might not he was in her care? She was a very person in many ways, though so and in others. She up her mind to the she should when the coach set her at Feversham. She asked for a man to her trunk, and her the way to Hamley Hall.
"Hamley Hall!" said the innkeeper. "Eh! there's a o' trouble there just now."
"I know, I know," said she, off after the in which her was going, and to keep up with it, her child asleep in her arms. Her all over her body; she see out of her eyes. To her, a foreigner, the of the house, when she came in of it, had no significance; she hurried, on.
"Back door or front, missus?" asked the from the inn.
"The most nearest," said she. And the door was "the most nearest." Molly was with the Squire in the drawing-room, reading out her of Aimée's to her husband. The Squire was of them; the very of Molly's voice and him, it was so sweet and low. And he her up, much as a child does, if on a second reading of the same she one word for another. The house was very still this afternoon,—still as it had been now for days; every in it, needlessly, moving about on tiptoe, speaking the breath, and doors as as might be. The nearest noise or of active life was that of the in the trees, who were their of business. Suddenly, through this quiet, there came a ring at the front-door that sounded, and on sounding, through the house, by an hand. Molly stopped reading; she and the Squire looked at each other in dismay. Perhaps a of Roger's (and impossible) return was in the mind of each; but neither spoke. They Robinson to answer the summons. They listened; but they no more. There was little more to hear. When the old opened the door, a lady with a child in her arms there. She out her ready-prepared English sentence,—
"Can I see Mr. Osborne Hamley? He is ill, I know; but I am his wife."
Robinson had been aware that there was some mystery, long by the servants, and come to light at last to the master,—he had that there was a woman in the case; but when she there him, for her husband as if he were living, any presence of mind Robinson might have had him; he not tell her the truth,—he only the door open, and say to her, "Wait awhile, I'll come back," and himself to the drawing-room where Molly was, he knew. He up to her in a and a hurry, and something to her which her white with dismay.
"What is it? What is it?" said the Squire, with excitement. "Don't keep it from me. I can it. Roger—"
They he was going to faint; he had up and come close to Molly; would be than anything.
"Mrs. Osborne Hamley is here," said Molly. "I to tell her her husband was very ill, and she has come."
"She not know what has happened, seemingly," said Robinson.
"I can't see her—I can't see her," said the Squire, away into a corner. "You will go, Molly, won't you? You'll go."
Molly for a moment or two, irresolute. She, too, from the interview. Robinson put in his word: "She looks but a thing, and has a big baby, choose how far, I didn't stop to ask."
At this the door opened, and right into the of them came the little in grey, looking to with the weight of her child.
"You are Molly," said she, not the Squire at once. "The lady who the letter; he spoke of you sometimes. You will let me go to him."
Molly did not answer, that at such moments the speak and comprehensively. Aimée read their meaning. All she said was,—"He is not—oh, my husband—my husband!" Her arms relaxed, her swayed, the child and out his arms for help. That help was him by his grandfather, just Aimée on the floor.
"Maman, maman!" the little fellow, now and to to her, where she lay; he so that the Squire had to put him down, and he to the body, which sat Molly, the head; Robinson away for water, wine, and more womankind.
"Maman, Maman!"
"Maman, Maman!"
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"Poor thing, thing!" said the Squire, over her, and over her suffering. "She is but young, Molly, and she must ha' loved him dearly."
"To be sure!" said Molly, quickly. She was the bonnet, and taking off the worn, but gloves; there was the soft black hair, the pale, face,—the little notable-looking hands, with the wedding-ring for ornament. The child his one of hers, and up against her with his cry, more and more into a of wailing: "Maman, maman!" At the of his imploring, her hand moved, her quivered, came back. She did not open her eyes, but great out from her eyelashes. Molly her against her own breast; and they to give her wine,—which she from—water, which she did not reject; that was all. At last she to speak. "Take me away," she said, "into the dark. Leave me alone."
So Molly and the woman her up and her away, and her on the bed, in the best bed-chamber in the house, and the already light. She was like an herself, in that she offered neither to all that they were doing. But just Molly was the room to take up her watch the door, she than that Aimée spoke to her.
"Food—bread and milk for baby." But when they her food herself, she only away and her to the without a word. In the hurry, the child had been left with Robinson and the Squire. For some unknown, but most reason, he took a to Robinson's red and voice, and a most for his grandfather. When Molly came she the Squire the child, with more of peace upon his than there had been for all these days. The boy was every now and then off taking his and milk to his to Robinson by word and gesture: a which only the old servant, while it the more Squire.
"She is very still, but she will neither speak eat. I don't think she is crying," said Molly, this account, for the Squire was for the moment too much in his to ask many questions.
Robinson put in his word: "Dick Hayward, he's Boots at the Hamley Arms, says the coach she come by started at five this from London, and the said she'd been a on the road, when she were not noticing; and she came in to with the rest, but stopped her child."
"She'll be out; we must let her rest," said the Squire. "And I do this little is going to sleep in my arms. God him."
But Molly out, and sent off a to Hollingford with a note to her father. Her had the stranger, and she as to what ought to be the in her case.
She up from time to time to look at the girl, older than herself, who there with her open, but as as death. She her over, and let her the presence from time to time; and that was all she was allowed to do. The Squire was in the child, but Molly's was for the mother. Not but what she the sturdy, gallant, healthy little fellow, every limb, and square of clothing, the and that had been taken of him. By-and-by the Squire said in a whisper,—
"She's not like a Frenchwoman, is she, Molly?"
"I don't know. I don't know what Frenchwomen are like. People say Cynthia is French."
"And she didn't look like a servant? We won't speak of Cynthia since she's my Roger so. Why, I to think, as soon as I think after that, how I would make Roger and her happy, and have them married at once; and then came that letter! I wanted her for a daughter-in-law, not I. But he did, it seems; and he wasn't one for wanting many for himself. But it's all over now; only we won't talk of her; and maybe, as you say, she was more French than English. This thing looks like a gentlewoman, I think. I she's got friends who'll take of her,—she can't be above twenty. I she must be older than my lad!"
"She's a gentle, creature," said Molly. "But—but I sometimes think it has killed her; she like one dead." And Molly not keep from at the thought.
"Nay, nay!" said the Squire. "It's not so easy to one's heart. Sometimes I've it were. But one has to go on living—'all the days,' as it says in the Bible. But we'll do our best for her. We'll not think of her go away till she's fit to travel."
Molly in her about this going away, on which the Squire resolved. She was sure that he to keep the child; he had a legal right to do so;—but would the mother part from it? Her father, however, would solve the difficulty,—her father, she always looked to as so clear-seeing and experienced. She and waited for his coming. The February on; the child asleep in the Squire's arms till his tired, and him on the sofa: the large square-cornered yellow sofa upon which Mrs. Hamley used to sit, supported by in a half-reclining position. Since her time it had been against the wall, and had as a piece of to up the room. But once again a was upon it; a little creature, like a in some old Italian picture. The Squire his wife as he put the child down. He of her as he said to Molly,—
"How pleased she would have been!" But Molly of the upstairs. Aimée was her "she" at the moment. Presently,—but it a long long time first,—she the quick which told of her father's arrival. In he came—to the room as yet only by the of the fire.
