"You must know a good deal about Mr. Preston, my dear. I suppose you
saw a good deal of him at Ashcombe?"
Mrs. Gibson coloured, and looked at Cynthia before she replied.
Cynthia's face was set into a determination not to speak, however
much she might be referred to.
"Yes; we saw a good deal of him--at one time, I mean. He's
changeable, I think. But he always sent us game, and sometimes fruit.
There were some stories against him, but I never believed them."
"What kind of stories?" said Mr. Gibson, quickly.
"Oh, vague stories, you know: scandal, I daresay. No one ever
believed them. He could be so agreeable if he chose; and my lord, who
is so very particular, would never have kept him as agent if they
were true; not that I ever knew what they were, for I consider all
scandal as abominable gossip."
"I'm very glad I yawned in his face," said Mr. Gibson. "I hope he'll
take the hint."
"If it was one of your giant-gapes, papa, I should call it more than
a hint," said Molly. "And if you want a yawning chorus the next time
he comes, I'll join in; won't you, Cynthia?"
"I don't know," replied the latter, shortly, as she lighted her
bed-candle. The two girls had usually some nightly conversation in
one or other of their bed-rooms; but to-night Cynthia said something
or other about being terribly tired, and hastily shut her door.
The very next day, Roger came to pay his promised call. Molly was out
in the garden with Williams, planning the arrangement of some new
flower-beds, and deep in her employment of placing pegs upon the lawn
to mark out the different situations, when, standing up to mark the
effect, her eye was caught by the figure of a gentleman, sitting with
his back to the light, leaning forwards and talking, or listening,
eagerly. Molly knew the shape of the head perfectly, and hastily
began to put off her brown-holland gardening apron, emptying the
pockets as she spoke to Williams.
"You can finish it now, I think," said she. "You know about the
bright-coloured flowers being against the privet-hedge, and where the
new rose-bed is to be?"
"I can't justly say as I do," said he. "Mebbe, you'll just go o'er it
all once again, Miss Molly. I'm not so young as I oncst was, and my
head is not so clear now-a-days, and I'd be loath to make mistakes
when you're so set upon your plans."
Molly gave up her impulse in a moment. She saw that the old gardener
was really perplexed, yet that he was as anxious as he could be to do
his best. So she went over the ground again, pegging and explaining
till the wrinkled brow was smooth again, and he kept saying, "I see,
miss. All right, Miss Molly, I'se gotten it in my head as clear as
patchwork now."