"Now, miss," said Mrs. Dyson, when her own especial charge were all
ready, "what can I do for you? You have not got another frock here,
have you?" No, indeed, she had not; nor if she had had one, could it
have been of a smarter nature than her present thick white dimity.
So she could only wash her face and hands, and submit to the nurse's
brushing and perfuming her hair. She thought she would rather have
stayed in the park all night long, and slept under the beautiful
quiet cedar, than have to undergo the unknown ordeal of "going
down to dessert," which was evidently regarded both by children and
nurses as the event of the day. At length there was a summons from
a footman, and Mrs. Dyson, in a rustling silk gown, marshalled her
convoy, and set sail for the dining-room door.
There was a large party of gentlemen and ladies sitting round the
decked table, in the brilliantly lighted room. Each dainty little
child ran up to its mother, or aunt, or particular friend; but Molly
had no one to go to.
"Who is that tall girl in the thick white frock? Not one of the
children of the house, I think?"
The lady addressed put up her glass, gazed at Molly, and dropped it
in an instant. "A French girl, I should imagine. I know Lady Cuxhaven
was inquiring for one to bring up with her little girls, that they
might get a good accent early. Poor little woman, she looks wild
and strange!" And the speaker, who sate next to Lord Cumnor, made a
little sign to Molly to come to her; Molly crept up to her as to the
first shelter; but when the lady began talking to her in French, she
blushed violently, and said in a very low voice,--
"I don't understand French. I'm only Molly Gibson, ma'am."
"Molly Gibson!" said the lady, out loud; as if that was not much of
an explanation.
Lord Cumnor caught the words and the tone.
"Oh, ho!" said he. "Are you the little girl who has been sleeping in
my bed?"
He imitated the deep voice of the fabulous bear, who asks this
question of the little child in the story; but Molly had never read
the "Three Bears," and fancied that his anger was real; she trembled
a little, and drew nearer to the kind lady who had beckoned her as
to a refuge. Lord Cumnor was very fond of getting hold of what he
fancied was a joke, and working his idea threadbare; so all the time
the ladies were in the room he kept on his running fire at Molly,
alluding to the Sleeping Beauty, the Seven Sleepers, and any other
famous sleeper that came into his head. He had no idea of the misery
his jokes were to the sensitive girl, who already thought herself
a miserable sinner, for having slept on, when she ought to have
been awake. If Molly had been in the habit of putting two and two
together, she might have found an excuse for herself, by remembering
that Mrs. Kirkpatrick had promised faithfully to awaken her in time;
but all the girl thought of was, how little they wanted her in this
grand house; how she must seem like a careless intruder who had no
business there. Once or twice she wondered where her father was, and
whether he was missing her; but the thought of the familiar happiness
of home brought such a choking in her throat, that she felt she must
not give way to it, for fear of bursting out crying; and she had
instinct enough to feel that, as she was left at the Towers, the less
trouble she gave, the more she kept herself out of observation, the
better.