"She must be told," said Mr. Gibson, musing.
"Yes, she must," replied his daughter. "But how?"
"A day or two of waiting will do no harm," said he, almost as if
he was anxious to delay the solution of the problem. "It will make
her anxious, poor thing, and all sorts of gloomy possibilities will
suggest themselves to her mind--amongst them the truth; it will be a
kind of preparation."
"For what? Something must be done at last," said Molly.
"Yes; true. Suppose you write, and say he's very ill; write
to-morrow. I daresay they've indulged themselves in daily postage,
and then she'll have had three days' silence. You say how you come
to know all you do about it; I think she ought to know he is very
ill--in great danger, if you like: and you can follow it up next day
with the full truth. I wouldn't worry the Squire about it. After the
funeral we will have a talk about the child."
"She will never part with it," said Molly.
"Whew! Till I see the woman I can't tell," said her father; "some
women would. It will be well provided for, according to what you say.
And she is a foreigner, and may very likely wish to go back to her
own people and kindred. There's much to be said on both sides."
"So you always say, papa. But in this case I think you'll find I'm
right. I judge from her letters; but I think I'm right."
"So you always say, daughter. Time will show. So the child is a
boy? Mrs. Gibson told me particularly to ask. It will go far to
reconciling her to Cynthia's dismissal of Roger. But indeed it is
quite as well for both of them, though of course he will be a long
time before he thinks so. They were not suited to each other. Poor
Roger! It was hard work writing to him yesterday; and who knows what
may have become of him! Well, well! one has to get through the world
somehow. I'm glad, however, this little lad has turned up to be the
heir. I shouldn't have liked the property to go to the Irish Hamleys,
who are the next heirs, as Osborne once told me. Now write that
letter, Molly, to the poor little Frenchwoman out yonder. It will
prepare her for it; and we must think a bit how to spare her the
shock, for Osborne's sake."
The writing this letter was rather difficult work for Molly, and
she tore up two or three copies before she could manage it to her
satisfaction; and at last, in despair of ever doing it better, she
sent it off without re-reading it. The next day was easier; the fact
of Osborne's death was told briefly and tenderly. But when this
second letter was sent off, Molly's heart began to bleed for the
poor creature, bereft of her husband, in a foreign land, and he at a
distance from her, dead and buried without her ever having had the
chance of printing his dear features on her memory by one last long
lingering look. With her thoughts full of the unknown Aimée, Molly
talked much about her that day to the Squire. He would listen for
ever to any conjecture, however wild, about the grandchild, but
perpetually winced away from all discourse about "the Frenchwoman,"
as he called her; not unkindly, but to his mind she was simply the
Frenchwoman--chattering, dark-eyed, demonstrative, and possibly even
rouged. He would treat her with respect as his son's widow, and
would try even not to think upon the female inveiglement in which he
believed. He would make her an allowance to the extent of his duty:
but he hoped and trusted he might never be called upon to see her.
His solicitor, Gibson, anybody and everybody, should be called upon
to form a phalanx of defence against that danger.