"I'm not sure if I can go down again to-night. It would be very
comfortable to have a little table brought in here, and sit in my
dressing-gown by this cheerful fire. But, to be sure, there's your
dear papa? I really don't think he would eat anything if I were not
there. One must not think about oneself, you know. Yes, I'll come
down in a quarter of an hour."
But Mr. Gibson had found a note awaiting him, with an immediate
summons to an old patient, dangerously ill; and, snatching a mouthful
of food while his horse was being saddled, he had to resume at once
his old habits of attention to his profession above everything.
As soon as Mrs. Gibson found that he was not likely to miss her
presence--he had eaten a very tolerable lunch of bread and cold meat
in solitude, so her fears about his appetite in her absence were not
well founded--she desired to have her meal upstairs in her own room;
and poor Molly, not daring to tell the servants of this whim, had to
carry up first a table, which, however small, was too heavy for her;
and afterwards all the choice portions of the meal, which she had
taken great pains to arrange on the table, as she had seen such
things done at Hamley, intermixed with fruit and flowers that had
that morning been sent in from various great houses where Mr. Gibson
was respected and valued. How pretty Molly had thought her handiwork
an hour or two before! How dreary it seemed as, at last released from
Mrs. Gibson's conversation, she sate down in solitude to cold tea and
the drumsticks of the chicken! No one to look at her preparations,
and admire her deft-handedness and taste! She had thought that her
father would be gratified by it, and then he had never seen it. She
had meant her cares as an offering of good-will to her stepmother,
who even now was ringing her bell to have the tray taken away, and
Miss Gibson summoned to her bedroom.
Molly hastily finished her meal, and went upstairs again.
"I feel so lonely, darling, in this strange house; do come and be
with me, and help me to unpack. I think your dear papa might have put
off his visit to Mr. Craven Smith for just this one evening."
"Mr. Craven Smith couldn't put off his dying," said Molly, bluntly.
"You droll girl!" said Mrs. Gibson, with a faint laugh. "But if this
Mr. Smith is dying, as you say, what's the use of your father's going
off to him in such a hurry? Does he expect any legacy, or anything of
that kind?"