"Go to her, my dear; I cannot--not just yet. But I will soon. Just
this bit; and after that I won't lose a moment. You're a good girl.
God bless you!"
It is not to be supposed that Molly had remained all this time at the
Hall without interruption. Once or twice her father had brought her
a summons home. Molly thought she could perceive that he had brought
it unwillingly; in fact, it was Mrs. Gibson that had sent for her,
almost, as it were, to preserve a "right of way" through her actions.
"You shall come back to-morrow, or the next day," her father had
said. "But mamma seems to think people will put a bad construction on
your being so much away from home so soon after our marriage."
"Oh, papa, I'm afraid Mrs. Hamley will miss me! I do so like being
with her."
"I don't think it is likely she will miss you as much as she would
have done a month or two ago. She sleeps so much now, that she is
scarcely conscious of the lapse of time. I'll see that you come back
here again in a day or two."
So out of the silence and the soft melancholy of the Hall Molly
returned into the all-pervading element of chatter and gossip at
Hollingford. Mrs. Gibson received her kindly enough. Once she had a
smart new winter bonnet ready to give her as a present; but she did
not care to hear any particulars about the friends whom Molly had
just left; and her few remarks on the state of affairs at the Hall
jarred terribly on the sensitive Molly.
"What a time she lingers! Your papa never expected she would last
half so long after that attack. It must be very wearing work to them
all; I declare you look quite another creature since you were there.
One can only wish it mayn't last, for their sakes."
"You don't know how the Squire values every minute," said Molly.
"Why, you say she sleeps a great deal, and doesn't talk much when
she's awake, and there's not the slightest hope for her. And yet, at
such times, people are kept on the tenter-hooks with watching and
waiting. I know it by my dear Kirkpatrick. There really were days
when I thought it never would end. But we won't talk any more of such
dismal things; you've had quite enough of them, I'm sure, and it
always makes me melancholy to hear of illness and death; and yet your
papa seems sometimes as if he could talk of nothing else. I'm going
to take you out to-night, though, and that will give you something
of a change; and I've been getting Miss Rose to trim up one of my
old gowns for you; it's too tight for me. There's some talk of
dancing,--it's at Mrs. Edwards'."