Wives and Daughters: An Every-Day Story - Page 95/572

"Harriet thought of her father's happiness before she thought of her

own," Roger answered, with something of severe brevity. Molly needed

the bracing. She began to cry again a little.

"If it were for papa's happiness--"

"He must believe that it is. Whatever you fancy, give him a chance.

He cannot have much comfort, I should think, if he sees you fretting

or pining,--you who have been so much to him, as you say. The lady

herself, too--if Harriet's stepmother had been a selfish woman, and

been always clutching after the gratification of her own wishes; but

she was not: she was as anxious for Harriet to be happy as Harriet

was for her father--and your father's future wife may be another of

the same kind, though such people are rare."

"I don't think she is, though," murmured Molly, a waft of

recollection bringing to her mind the details of her day at the

Towers long ago.

Roger did not want to hear Molly's reasons for this doubting speech.

He felt as if he had no right to hear more of Mr. Gibson's family

life, past, present, or to come, than was absolutely necessary for

him, in order that he might comfort and help the crying girl, whom he

had come upon so unexpectedly. And besides, he wanted to go home, and

be with his mother at lunch-time. Yet he could not leave her alone.

"It is right to hope for the best about everybody, and not to expect

the worst. This sounds like a truism, but it has comforted me before

now, and some day you'll find it useful. One has always to try to

think more of others than of oneself, and it is best not to prejudge

people on the bad side. My sermons aren't long, are they? Have they

given you an appetite for lunch? Sermons always make me hungry, I

know."

He appeared to be waiting for her to get up and come along with him,

as indeed he was. But he meant her to perceive that he should not

leave her; so she rose up languidly, too languid to say how much she

should prefer being left alone, if he would only go away without her.

She was very weak, and stumbled over the straggling root of a tree

that projected across the path. He, watchful though silent, saw

this stumble, and putting out his hand held her up from falling. He

still held her hand when the occasion was past; this little physical

failure impressed on his heart how young and helpless she was, and

he yearned to her, remembering the passion of sorrow in which he had

found her, and longing to be of some little tender bit of comfort to

her, before they parted--before their tête-à-tête walk was merged in

the general familiarity of the household life. Yet he did not know

what to say.