She tried to be patient on these occasions, but at last she must
ask--"Where is he, Cynthia? What does he say?" By this time Cynthia
had put down the letter on the table by her, smiling a little from
time to time, as she remembered the loving compliments it contained.
"Where? Oh, I didn't look exactly--somewhere in Abyssinia--Huon. I
can't read the word, and it doesn't much signify, for it would give
me no idea."
"Is he well?" asked greedy Molly.
"Yes, now. He has had a slight touch of fever, he says; but it's all
over now, and he hopes he is getting acclimatized."
"Of fever!--and who took care of him? he would want nursing,--and so
far from home. Oh, Cynthia!"
"Oh, I don't fancy he had any nursing, poor fellow! One doesn't
expect nursing, and hospitals, and doctors in Abyssinia; but he had
plenty of quinine with him, and I suppose that is the best specific.
At any rate he says he is quite well now!"
Molly sat silent for a minute or two.
"What is the date of the letter, Cynthia?"
"I didn't look. December the--December the 10th."
"That's nearly two months ago," said Molly.
"Yes; but I determined I wouldn't worry myself with useless anxiety,
when he went away. If anything did--go wrong, you know," said
Cynthia, using a euphuism for death, as most people do (it is an
ugly word to speak plain out in the midst of life), "it would be all
over before I even heard of his illness, and I could be of no use to
him--could I, Molly?"
"No. I daresay it is all very true; only I should think the Squire
could not take it so easily."
"I always write him a little note when I hear from Roger, but I don't
think I'll name this touch of fever--shall I, Molly?"
"I don't know," said Molly. "People say one ought, but I almost wish
I hadn't heard it. Please, does he say anything else that I may
hear?"
"Oh, lovers' letters are so silly, and I think this is sillier than
usual," said Cynthia, looking over her letter again. "Here's a piece
you may read, from that line to that," indicating two places. "I
haven't read it myself for it looked dullish--all about Aristotle and
Pliny--and I want to get this bonnet-cap made up before we go out to
pay our calls."
Molly took the letter, the thought crossing her mind that he had
touched it, had had his hands upon it, in those far distant desert
lands, where he might be lost to sight and to any human knowledge
of his fate; even now her pretty brown fingers almost caressed the
flimsy paper with their delicacy of touch as she read. She saw
references made to books, which, with a little trouble, would be
accessible to her here in Hollingford. Perhaps the details and the
references would make the letter dull and dry to some people, but not
to her, thanks to his former teaching and the interest he had excited
in her for his pursuits. But, as he said in apology, what had he to
write about in that savage land, but his love, and his researches,
and travels? There was no society, no gaiety, no new books to write
about, no gossip in Abyssinian wilds.