"I'm sure she's very kind; very. Nothing would have given us more
pleasure," said Miss Browning, drawing herself up in gratified
dignity. "Oh, yes, we quite understand, Mr. Roger; and we fully
recognize Mrs. Hamley's kind intention. We will take the will for the
deed, as the common people express it. I believe that there was an
intermarriage between the Brownings and the Hamleys, a generation or
two ago."
"I daresay there was," said Roger. "My mother is very delicate, and
obliged to humour her health, which has made her keep aloof from
society."
"Then I may go?" said Molly, sparkling with the idea of seeing her
dear Mrs. Hamley again, yet afraid of appearing too desirous of
leaving her kind old friends.
"To be sure, my dear. Write a pretty note, and tell Mrs. Hamley how
much obliged to her we are for thinking of us."
"I'm afraid I can't wait for a note," said Roger. "I must take a
message instead, for I have to meet my father at one o'clock, and
it's close upon it now."
When he was gone, Molly felt so light-hearted at the thoughts of
Thursday that she could hardly attend to what the Miss Brownings were
saying. One was talking about the pretty muslin gown which Molly had
sent to the wash only that morning, and contriving how it could be
had back again in time for her to wear; and the other, Miss Phoebe,
totally inattentive to her sister's speaking for a wonder, was piping
out a separate strain of her own, and singing Roger Hamley's praises.
"Such a fine-looking young man, and so courteous and affable. Like
the young men of our youth now, is he not, sister? And yet they all
say Mr. Osborne is the handsomest. What do you think, child?"
"I've never seen Mr. Osborne," said Molly, blushing, and hating
herself for doing so. Why was it? She had never seen him as she said.
It was only that her fancy had dwelt on him so much.
He was gone--all the gentlemen were gone before the carriage, which
came to fetch Molly on Thursday, reached Hamley Hall. But Molly was
almost glad, she was so much afraid of being disappointed. Besides,
she had her dear Mrs. Hamley the more to herself; the quiet sit in
the morning-room, talking poetry and romance; the midday saunter into
the garden, brilliant with autumnal flowers and glittering dew-drops
on the gossamer webs that stretched from scarlet to blue, and thence
to purple and yellow petals. As they were sitting at lunch, a strange
man's voice and step were heard in the hall; the door was opened,
and a young man came in, who could be no other than Osborne. He was
beautiful and languid-looking, almost as frail in appearance as
his mother, whom he strongly resembled. This seeming delicacy made
him appear older than he was. He was dressed to perfection, and
yet with easy carelessness. He came up to his mother, and stood by
her, holding her hand, while his eyes sought Molly, not boldly or
impertinently, but as if appraising her critically.