"If my mother ever says anything about that part of the affair," said
Roger, hastily, "assure her from me that there's nothing of vice or
wrong-doing about it. I can't say more: I'm tied. But set her mind at
ease on that point."
"I'm not sure if she remembers all her painful anxiety about this,"
said Molly. "She used to speak a great deal to me about him before
you came, when your father seemed so angry. And now, whenever she
sees me she wants to talk on the old subject; but she doesn't
remember so clearly. If she were to see him, I don't believe she
would recollect why she was uneasy about him while he was absent."
"He must be here soon. I expect him every day," said Roger, uneasily.
"Do you think your father will be very angry with him?" asked Molly,
with as much timidity as if the squire's displeasure might be
directed against her.
"I don't know," said Roger. "My mother's illness may alter him; but
he didn't easily forgive us formerly. I remember once--but that is
nothing to the purpose. I can't help fancying that he has put himself
under some strong restraint for my mother's sake, and that he won't
express much. But it doesn't follow that he will forget it. My father
is a man of few affections, but what he has are very strong; he feels
anything that touches him on these points deeply and permanently.
That unlucky valuing of the property! It has given my father the idea
of post-obits--"
"What are they?" asked Molly.
"Raising money to be paid on my father's death, which, of course,
involves calculations as to the duration of his life."
"How shocking!" said she.
"I'm as sure as I am of my own life that Osborne never did anything
of the kind. But my father expressed his suspicions in language
that irritated Osborne; and he doesn't speak out, and won't justify
himself even as much as he might; and, much as he loves me, I've but
little influence over him, or else he would tell my father all. Well,
we must leave it to time," he added, sighing. "My mother would have
brought us all right, if she'd been what she once was."
He turned away, leaving Molly very sad. She knew that every member of
the family she cared for so much was in trouble, out of which she saw
no exit; and her small power of helping them was diminishing day by
day as Mrs. Hamley sank more and more under the influence of opiates
and stupefying illness. Her father had spoken to her only this very
day of the desirableness of her returning home for good. Mrs. Gibson
wanted her--for no particular reason, but for many small fragments of
reasons. Mrs. Hamley had ceased to want her much, only occasionally
appearing to remember her existence. Her position (her father
thought--the idea had not entered her head) in a family of which
the only woman was an invalid confined to bed, was becoming awkward.
But Molly had begged hard to remain two or three days longer--only
that--only till Friday. If Mrs. Hamley should want her (she argued,
with tears in her eyes), and should hear that she had left the house,
she would think her so unkind, so ungrateful!