Robinson opened the door for Molly almost before the carriage had
fairly drawn up at the Hall, and told her that the Squire had been
very anxious for her return, and had more than once sent him to
an upstairs window, from which a glimpse of the hill-road between
Hollingford and Hamley could be caught, to know if the carriage was
not yet in sight. Molly went into the drawing-room. The Squire was
standing in the middle of the floor awaiting her--in fact, longing to
go out and meet her, but restrained by a feeling of solemn etiquette,
which prevented his moving about as usual in that house of mourning.
He held a paper in his hands, which were trembling with excitement
and emotion; and four or five open letters were strewed on a table
near him.
"It's all true," he began; "she's his wife, and he's her husband--was
her husband--that's the word for it--was! Poor lad! poor lad! it's
cost him a deal. Pray God, it wasn't my fault. Read this, my dear.
It's a certificate. It's all regular--Osborne Hamley to Marie-Aimée
Scherer,--parish-church and all, and witnessed. Oh, dear!" He sate
down in the nearest chair and groaned. Molly took a seat by him, and
read the legal paper, the perusal of which was not needed to convince
her of the fact of the marriage. She held it in her hand after she
had finished reading it, waiting for the Squire's next coherent
words; for he kept talking to himself in broken sentences. "Ay,
ay! that comes o' temper, and crabbedness. She was the only one as
could,--and I've been worse since she was gone. Worse! worse! and
see what it has come to! He was afraid of me--ay--afraid. That's the
truth of it--afraid. And it made him keep all to himself, and care
killed him. They may call it heart-disease--O my lad, my lad, I know
better now; but it's too late--that's the sting of it--too late, too
late!" He covered his face, and moved himself backward and forward
till Molly could bear it no longer.
"There are some letters," said she: "may I read any of them?" At
another time she would not have asked; but she was driven to it now
by her impatience of the speechless grief of the old man.
"Ay, read 'em, read 'em," said he. "Maybe you can. I can only pick
out a word here and there. I put 'em there for you to look at; and
tell me what is in 'em."
Molly's knowledge of written French of the present day was not so
great as her knowledge of the French of the _Mémoires de Sully_, and
neither the spelling nor the writing of the letters was of the best;
but she managed to translate into good enough colloquial English some
innocent sentences of love, and submission to Osborne's will--as if
his judgment was infallible,--and of faith in his purposes,--little
sentences in "little language" that went home to the Squire's heart.
Perhaps if Molly had read French more easily she might not have
translated them into such touching, homely, broken words. Here and
there, there were expressions in English; these the hungry-hearted
Squire had read while waiting for Molly's return. Every time she
stopped, he said, "Go on." He kept his face shaded, and only repeated
those two words at every pause. She got up to find some more of
Aimée's letters. In examining the papers, she came upon one in
particular. "Have you seen this, sir? This certificate of baptism"
(reading aloud) "of Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley, born June 21,
183--, child of Osborne Hamley and Marie-Aimée his wife--"