"You're sure I mayn't see her to-night?" he asked Molly, for the
third or fourth time.
"No, indeed. I will go up again if you like it. But Mrs. Jones, the
nurse Dr. Nicholls sent, is a very decided person. I went up while
you were at dinner, and Mrs. Hamley had just taken her drops, and was
on no account to be disturbed by seeing any one, much less by any
excitement."
Osborne kept walking up and down the long drawing-room, half talking
to himself, half to Molly.
"I wish Roger would come. He seems to be the only one to give me a
welcome. Does my father always live upstairs in my mother's rooms,
Miss Gibson?"
"He has done since her last attack. I believe he reproaches himself
for not having been enough alarmed before."
"You heard all the words he said to me; they were not much of a
welcome, were they? And my dear mother, who always--whether I was to
blame or not--I suppose Roger is sure to come home to-night?"
"Quite sure."
"You are staying here, are you not? Do you often see my mother, or
does this omnipotent nurse keep you out too?"
"Mrs. Hamley hasn't asked for me for three days now, and I don't go
into her room unless she asks. I'm leaving on Friday, I believe."
"My mother was very fond of you, I know."
After a while he said, in a voice that had a great deal of sensitive
pain in its tone,--
"I suppose--do you know whether she is quite conscious--quite
herself?"
"Not always conscious," said Molly, tenderly. "She has to take so
many opiates. But she never wanders, only forgets, and sleeps."
"Oh, mother, mother!" said he, stopping suddenly, and hanging over
the fire, his hands on the chimney-piece.
When Roger came home, Molly thought it time to retire. Poor girl!
it was getting to be time for her to leave this scene of distress
in which she could be of no use. She sobbed herself to sleep this
Tuesday night. Two days more, and it would be Friday; and she would
have to wrench up the roots she had shot down into this ground. The
weather was bright the next morning; and morning and sunny weather
cheer up young hearts. Molly sate in the dining-room making tea for
the gentlemen as they came down. She could not help hoping that the
Squire and Osborne might come to a better understanding before she
left; for after all, in the dissension between father and son, lay a
bitterer sting than in the illness sent by God. But though they met
at the breakfast-table, they purposely avoided addressing each other.
Perhaps the natural subject of conversation between the two, at such
a time, would have been Osborne's long journey the night before; but
he had never spoken of the place he had come from, whether north,
south, east, or west, and the Squire did not choose to allude to
anything that might bring out what his son wished to conceal. Again,
there was an unexpressed idea in both their minds that Mrs. Hamley's
present illness was much aggravated, if not entirely brought on, by
the discovery of Osborne's debts; so, many inquiries and answers on
that head were tabooed. In fact, their attempts at easy conversation
were limited to local subjects, and principally addressed to Molly
or Roger. Such intercourse was not productive of pleasure, or even
of friendly feeling, though there was a thin outward surface of
politeness and peace. Long before the day was over, Molly wished that
she had acceded to her father's proposal, and gone home with him.
No one seemed to want her. Mrs. Jones, the nurse, assured her time
after time that Mrs. Hamley had never named her name; and her small
services in the sick-room were not required since there was a regular
nurse. Osborne and Roger seemed all in all to each other; and Molly
now felt how much the short conversations she had had with Roger had
served to give her something to think about, all during the remainder
of her solitary days. Osborne was extremely polite, and even
expressed his gratitude to her for her attentions to his mother in
a very pleasant manner; but he appeared to be unwilling to show
her any of the deeper feelings of his heart, and almost ashamed of
his exhibition of emotion the night before. He spoke to her as any
agreeable young man speaks to any pleasant young lady; but Molly
almost resented this. It was only the Squire who seemed to make her
of any account. He gave her letters to write, small bills to reckon
up; and she could have kissed his hands for thankfulness.