There was another long evening to be got through with Mrs. Gibson;
but on this occasion there was the pleasant occupation of dinner,
which took up at least an hour; for it was one of Mrs. Gibson's
fancies--one which Molly chafed against--to have every ceremonial
gone through in the same stately manner for two as for twenty. So,
although Molly knew full well, and her stepmother knew full well,
and Maria knew full well, that neither Mrs. Gibson nor Molly touched
dessert, it was set on the table with as much form as if Cynthia had
been at home, who delighted in almonds and raisins; or Mr. Gibson
been there, who never could resist dates, though he always protested
against "persons in their station of life having a formal dessert set
out before them every day."
And Mrs. Gibson herself apologized, as it were, to Molly to-day,
in the same words she had often used to Mr. Gibson,--"It's no
extravagance, for we need not eat it--I never do. But it looks well,
and makes Maria understand what is required in the daily life of
every family of position."
All through the evening Molly's thoughts wandered far and wide,
though she managed to keep up a show of attention to what Mrs.
Gibson was saying. She was thinking of Osborne, and his abrupt,
half-finished confidence, and his ill-looks; she was wondering when
Roger would come home, and longing for his return, as much (she said
to herself) for Osborne's sake as for her own. And then she checked
herself. What had she to do with Roger? Why should she long for his
return? It was Cynthia who was doing this; only somehow he was such
a true friend to Molly, that she could not help thinking of him as a
staff and a stay in the troublous times which appeared to lie not far
ahead--this evening. Then Mr. Preston and her little adventure with
him came uppermost. How angry he looked! How could Cynthia have
liked him even enough to get into this abominable scrape, which
was, however, all over now! And so she ran on in her fancies and
imaginations, little dreaming that that very night much talk was
going on not half-a-mile from where she sate sewing, that would prove
that the "scrape" (as she called it, in her girlish phraseology) was
not all over.
Scandal sleeps in the summer, comparatively speaking. Its nature is
the reverse of that of the dormouse. Warm ambient air, loiterings
abroad, gardenings, flowers to talk about, and preserves to make,
soothed the wicked imp to slumber in the parish of Hollingford in
summer-time. But when evenings grew short, and people gathered round
the fires, and put their feet in a circle--not on the fenders, that
was not allowed--then was the time for confidential conversation!
Or in the pauses allowed for the tea-trays to circulate among the
card-tables--when those who were peaceably inclined tried to stop
the warm discussions about "the odd trick," and the rather wearisome
feminine way of "shouldering the crutch, and showing how fields were
won"--small crumbs and scraps of daily news came up to the surface,
such as "Martindale has raised the price of his best joints a
halfpenny in the pound;" or, "It's a shame of Sir Harry to order in
another book on farriery into the Book Society; Phoebe and I tried
to read it, but really there is no general interest in it;" or, "I
wonder what Mr. Ashton will do, now Nancy is going to be married!
Why, she's been with him these seventeen years! It's a very foolish
thing for a woman of her age to be thinking of matrimony; and so I
told her, when I met her in the market-place this morning!"