"I wonder if the Squire knows."
"Knows what? Oh, yes, to be sure--you mean about Roger. I daresay he
doesn't, and there's no need to tell him, for I've no doubt it is all
right now." And she went out of the room to finish her unpacking.
Molly let her work fall, and sighed. "It will be a year the day after
to-morrow since he came here to propose our going to Hurst Wood, and
mamma was so vexed at his calling before lunch. I wonder if Cynthia
remembers it as well as I do. And now, perhaps-- Oh! Roger, Roger! I
wish--I pray that you were safe home again! How could we all bear it,
if--"
She covered her face with her hands, and tried to stop thinking.
Suddenly she got up, as if stung by a venomous fancy.
"I don't believe she loves him as she ought, or she could not--could
not have gone and danced. What shall I do if she does not? What shall
I do? I can bear anything but that."
But she found the long suspense as to his health hard enough to
endure. They were not likely to hear from him for a month at least,
and before that time had elapsed Cynthia would be at home again.
Molly learnt to long for her return before a fortnight of her absence
was over. She had had no idea that perpetual tête-à-têtes with Mrs.
Gibson could, by any possibility, be so tiresome as she found them.
Perhaps Molly's state of delicate health, consequent upon her rapid
growth during the last few months, made her irritable; but really
often she had to get up and leave the room to calm herself down after
listening to a long series of words, more frequently plaintive or
discontented in tone than cheerful, and which at the end conveyed
no distinct impression of either the speaker's thought or feeling.
Whenever anything had gone wrong, whenever Mr. Gibson had coolly
persevered in anything to which she had objected; whenever the cook
had made a mistake about the dinner, or the housemaid broken any
little frangible article; whenever Molly's hair was not done to her
liking, or her dress did not become her, or the smell of dinner
pervaded the house, or the wrong callers came, or the right callers
did not come--in fact, whenever anything went wrong, poor Mr.
Kirkpatrick was regretted and mourned over, nay, almost blamed, as
if, had he only given himself the trouble of living, he could have
helped it.
"When I look back to those happy days, it seems to me as if I had
never valued them as I ought. To be sure--youth, love,--what did we
care for poverty! I remember dear Mr. Kirkpatrick walking five miles
into Stratford to buy me a muffin because I had such a fancy for one
after Cynthia was born. I don't mean to complain of dear papa--but
I don't think--but, perhaps I ought not to say it to you. If Mr.
Kirkpatrick had but taken care of that cough of his; but he was so
obstinate! Men always are, I think. And it really was selfish of
him. Only I daresay he did not consider the forlorn state in which I
should be left. It came harder upon me than upon most people, because
I always was of such an affectionate sensitive nature. I remember a
little poem of Mr. Kirkpatrick's, in which he compared my heart to a
harpstring, vibrating to the slightest breeze."