She put down her book on the table very softly, and turned to leave
the room, choking down her tears until she was in the solitude of her
own chamber. But Roger was at the door before her, holding it open
for her, and reading--she felt that he was reading--her face. He held
out his hand for hers, and his firm grasp expressed both sympathy and
regret for what had occurred.
She could hardly keep back her sobs till she reached her bedroom. Her
feelings had been overwrought for some time past, without finding the
natural vent in action. The leaving Hamley Hall had seemed so sad
before; and now she was troubled with having to bear away a secret
which she ought never to have known, and the knowledge of which had
brought out a very uncomfortable responsibility. Then there would
arise a very natural wonder as to who Osborne's wife was. Molly had
not stayed so long and so intimately in the Hamley family without
being well aware of the manner in which the future lady of Hamley was
planned for. The Squire, for instance, partly in order to show that
Osborne, his heir, was above the reach of Molly Gibson, the doctor's
daughter, in the early days before he knew Molly well, had often
alluded to the grand, the high, and the wealthy marriage which Hamley
of Hamley, as represented by his clever, brilliant, handsome son
Osborne, might be expected to make. Mrs. Hamley, too, unconsciously
on her part, showed the projects that she was constantly devising for
the reception of the unknown daughter-in-law that was to be.
"The drawing-room must be refurnished when Osborne marries"--or
"Osborne's wife will like to have the west suite of rooms to herself;
it will perhaps be a trial to her to live with the old couple; but we
must arrange it so that she will feel it as little as possible."--"Of
course, when Mrs. Osborne comes we must try and give her a new
carriage; the old one does well enough for us."--These, and similar
speeches had given Molly the impression of the future Mrs. Osborne as
of some beautiful grand young lady, whose very presence would make
the old Hall into a stately, formal mansion, instead of the pleasant,
unceremonious home that it was at present. Osborne, too, who had
spoken with such languid criticism to Mrs. Gibson about various
country belles, and even in his own home was apt to give himself
airs--only at home his airs were poetically fastidious, while with
Mrs. Gibson they had been socially fastidious--what unspeakably
elegant beauty had he chosen for his wife? Who had satisfied him; and
yet satisfying him, had to have her marriage kept in concealment from
his parents? At length Molly tore herself up from her wonderings. It
was of no use: she could not find out; she might not even try. The
blank wall of her promise blocked up the way. Perhaps it was not even
right to wonder, and endeavour to remember slight speeches, casual
mentions of a name, so as to piece them together into something
coherent. Molly dreaded seeing either of the brothers again; but they
all met at dinner-time as if nothing had happened. The Squire was
taciturn, either from melancholy or displeasure. He had never spoken
to Osborne since his return, excepting about the commonest trifles,
when intercourse could not be avoided; and his wife's state oppressed
him like a heavy cloud coming over the light of his day. Osborne put
on an indifferent manner to his father, which Molly felt sure was
assumed; but it was not conciliatory for all that. Roger, quiet,
steady, and natural, talked more than all the others; but he too
was uneasy, and in distress on many accounts. To-day he principally
addressed himself to Molly; entering into rather long narrations of
late discoveries in natural history, which kept up the current of
talk without requiring much reply from any one. Molly had expected
Osborne to look something different from usual--conscious, or
ashamed, or resentful, or even "married"--but he was exactly the
Osborne of the morning--handsome, elegant, languid in manner and in
look; cordial with his brother, polite towards her, secretly uneasy
at the state of things between his father and himself. She would
never have guessed the concealed romance which lay _perdu_ under
that every-day behaviour. She had always wished to come into direct
contact with a love-story: here she had, and she only found it very
uncomfortable; there was a sense of concealment and uncertainty about
it all; and her honest straightforward father, her quiet life at
Hollingford, which, even with all its drawbacks, was above-board,
and where everybody knew what everybody was doing, seemed secure and
pleasant in comparison. Of course she felt great pain at quitting
the Hall, and at the mute farewell she had taken of her sleeping
and unconscious friend. But leaving Mrs. Hamley now was a different
thing to what it had been a fortnight ago. Then she was wanted at any
moment, and felt herself to be of comfort. Now her very existence
seemed forgotten by the poor lady whose body appeared to be living so
long after her soul.