CHAPTER LIII.
UNLOOKED-FOR ARRIVALS.
Robinson opened the door for Molly almost before the carriage hadfairly drawn up at the Hall, and told her that the Squire had beenvery anxious for her return, and had more than once sent him toan upstairs window, from which a glimpse of the hill-road betweenHollingford and Hamley could be caught, to know if the carriage wasnot yet in sight. Molly went into the drawing-room. The Squire wasstanding in the middle of the floor awaiting her--in fact, longing togo 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 excitementand emotion and four or five open letters were strewed on a tablenear him.
"It's all true," he began; "she's his wife, and he's her husband--washer husband--that's the word for it--was! Poor lad! poor lad! it'scost 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-AimeeScherer,--parish-church and all, and witnessed. Oh, dear!" He satedown in the nearest chair and groaned. Molly took a seat by him, andread the legal paper, the perusal of which was not needed to convinceher of the fact of the marriage. She held it in her hand after shehad finished reading it, waiting for the Squire's next coherentwords; for he kept talking to himself in broken sentences. "Ay,ay! that comes o' temper, and crabbedness. She was the only one ascould,--and I've been worse since she was gone. Worse! worse! andsee what it has come to! He was afraid of me--ay--afraid. That's thetruth of it--afraid. And it made him keep all to himself, and carekilled him. They may call it heart-disease--O my lad, my lad, I knowbetter now; but it's too late--that's the sting of it--too late, toolate!" He covered his face, and moved himself backward and forwardtill Molly could bear it no longer.
"There are some letters," said she: "may I read any of them?" Atanother time she would not have asked; but she was driven to it nowby her impatience of the speechless grief of the old man.
"Ay, read 'em, read 'em," said he. "Maybe you can. I can only pickout a word here and there. I put 'em there for you to look at; andtell me what is in 'em."
Molly's knowledge of written French of the present day was not sogreat as her knowledge of the French of the _Memoires de Sully_, andneither the spelling nor the writing of the letters was of the best;but she managed to translate into good enough colloquial English someinnocent sentences of love, and submission to Osborne's will--as ifhis judgment was infallible,--and of faith in his purposes,--littlesentences in "little language" that went home to the Squire's heart.Perhaps if Molly had read French more easily she might not havetranslated them into such touching, homely, broken words. Here andthere, there were expressions in English; these the hungry-heartedSquire had read while waiting for Molly's return. Every time shestopped, he said, "Go on." He kept his face shaded, and only repeatedthose two words at every pause. She got up to find some more ofAimee's letters. In examining the papers, she came upon one inparticular. "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-Aimee his wife--"
"Give it me," said the Squire, his voice breaking now, and stretchingforth his eager hand. "'Roger,' that's me, 'Stephen,' that's my poorold father: he died when he was not so old as I am; but I've alwaysthought on him as very old. He was main and fond of Osborne, when hewas quite a little one. It's good of the lad to have thought on myfather Stephen. Ay! that was his name. And Osborne--Osborne Hamley!One Osborne Hamley lies dead on his bed--and t'other--t'other I'venever seen, and never heard on till to-day. He must be calledOsborne, Molly. There is a Roger--there's two for that matter; butone is a good-for-nothing old man; and there's never an Osborne anymore, unless this little thing is called Osborne; we'll have himhere, and get a nurse for him; and make his mother comfortable forlife in her own country. I'll keep this, Molly. You're a good lassfor finding it. Osborne Hamley! And if God will give me grace, heshall never hear a cross word from me--never! He shan't be afeard ofme. Oh, _my_ Osborne, _my_ Osborne" (he burst out), "do you know nowhow bitter and sore is my heart for every hard word as I ever spoketo you? Do you know now how I loved you--my boy--my boy?"
From the general tone of the letters, Molly doubted if the motherwould consent, so easily as the Squire seemed to expect, to be partedfrom her child; the letters were not very wise, perhaps (though ofthis Molly never thought), but a heart full of love spoke tenderwords in every line. Still, it was not for Molly to talk of thisdoubt of hers just then; but rather to dwell on the probable gracesand charms of the little Roger Stephen Osborne Hamley. She letthe Squire exhaust himself in wondering as to the particulars ofevery event, helping him out in conjectures; and both of them, fromtheir imperfect knowledge of possibilities, made the most curious,fantastic, and improbable guesses at the truth. And so that daypassed over, and the night came.
There were not many people who had any claim to be invited to thefuneral, and of these Mr. Gibson and the Squire's hereditary man ofbusiness had taken charge. But when Mr. Gibson came, early on thefollowing morning, Molly referred the question to him, which hadsuggested itself to her mind, though apparently not to the Squire's,what intimation of her loss should be sent to the widow, livingsolitary near Winchester, watching and waiting, if not for his comingwho lay dead in his distant home, at least for his letters. One fromher had already come, in her foreign handwriting, to the post-officeto which all her communications were usually sent, but of course theyat the Hall knew nothing of this.
"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 ifhe was anxious to delay the solution of the problem. "It will makeher anxious, poor thing, and all sorts of gloomy possibilities willsuggest themselves to her mind--amongst them the truth; it will be akind of preparation."
"For what? Something must be done at last," said Molly.
"Yes; true. Suppose you write, and say he's very ill; writeto-morrow. I daresay they've indulged themselves in daily postage,and then she'll have had three days' silence. You say how you cometo know all you do about it; I think she ought to know he is veryill--in great danger, if you like: and you can follow it up next daywith the full truth. I wouldn't worry the Squire about it. After thefuneral 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; "somewomen 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 herown 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'mright. I judge from her letters; but I think I'm right."
"So you always say, daughter. Time will show. So the child is aboy? Mrs. Gibson told me particularly to ask. It will go far toreconciling her to Cynthia's dismissal of Roger. But indeed it isquite as well for both of them, though of course he will be a longtime before he thinks so. They were not suited to each other. PoorRoger! It was hard work writing to him yesterday; and who knows whatmay have become of him! Well, well! one has to get through the worldsomehow. I'm glad, however, this little lad has turned up to be theheir. 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 thatletter, Molly, to the poor little Frenchwoman out yonder. It willprepare her for it; and we must think a bit how to spare her theshock, for Osborne's sake."
The writing this letter was rather difficult work for Molly, andshe tore up two or three copies before she could manage it to hersatisfaction and at last, in despair of ever doing it better, shesent it off without re-reading it. The next day was easier; the factof Osborne's death was told briefly and tenderly. But when thissecond letter was sent off, Molly's heart began to bleed for thepoor creature, bereft of her husband, in a foreign land, and he at adis
tance from her, dead and buried without her ever having had thechance of printing his dear features on her memory by one last longlingering look. With her thoughts full of the unknown Aimee, Mollytalked much about her that day to the Squire. He would listen forever to any conjecture, however wild, about the grandchild, butperpetually winced away from all discourse about "the Frenchwoman,"as he called her; not unkindly, but to his mind she was simply theFrenchwoman--chattering, dark-eyed, demonstrative, and possibly evenrouged. He would treat her with respect as his son's widow, andwould try even not to think upon the female inveiglement in which hebelieved. 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 uponto form a phalanx of defence against that danger.
And all this time a little young grey-eyed woman was making herway,--not towards him, but towards the dead son, whom as yet shebelieved to be her living husband. She knew she was acting indefiance of his expressed wish; but he had never dismayed her withany expression of his own fears about his health; and she, brightwith life, had never contemplated death coming to fetch away one sobeloved. He was ill--very ill, the letter from the strange girl saidthat; but Aimee had nursed her parents, and knew what illness was.The French doctor had praised her skill and neat-handedness as anurse, and even if she had been the clumsiest of women, was he nother husband--her all? And was she not his wife, whose place was byhis pillow? So, without even as much reasoning as has been heregiven, Aimee made her preparations, swallowing down the tears thatwould overflow her eyes, and drop into the little trunk she waspacking so neatly. And by her side, on the ground, sate the child,now nearly two years old; and for him Aimee had always a smile and acheerful word. Her servant loved her and trusted her; and the womanwas of an age to have had experience of humankind. Aimee had toldher that her husband was ill, and the servant had known enough ofthe household history to be aware that as yet Aimee was not hisacknowledged wife. But she sympathized with the prompt decision ofher mistress to go to him directly, wherever he was. Caution comesfrom education of one kind or another, and Aimee was not dismayed bywarnings; only the woman pleaded hard for the child to be left. "Hewas such company," she said; "and he would so tire his mother in herjourneyings; and maybe his father would be too ill to see him." Towhich Aimee replied, "Good company for you, but better for me. Awoman is never tired with carrying her own child" (which was nottrue; but there was sufficient truth in it to make it believed byboth mistress and servant), "and if Monsieur could care for anything,he would rejoice to hear the babble of his little son." So Aimeecaught the evening coach to London at the nearest cross-road, Marthastanding by as chaperon and friend to see her off, and handing herin the large lusty child, already crowing with delight at the sightof the horses. There was a "lingerie" shop, kept by a Frenchwoman,whose acquaintance Aimee had made in the days when she was a Londonnursemaid, and thither she betook herself, rather than to an hotel,to spend the few night-hours that intervened before the Birminghamcoach started at early morning. She slept or watched on a sofa inthe parlour, for spare-bed there was none; but Madame Pauline camein betimes with a good cup of coffee for the mother, and of "soupeblanche" for the boy; and they went off again into the wide world,only thinking of, only seeking the "him," who was everything humanto both. Aimee remembered the sound of the name of the village whereOsborne had often told her that he alighted from the coach to walkhome; and though she could never have spelt the strange uncouth word,yet she spoke it with pretty slow distinctness to the guard, askinghim in her broken English when they should arrive there? Not tillfour o'clock. Alas! and what might happen before then! Once with himshe would have no fear; she was sure that she could bring him round;but what might not happen before he was in her tender care? She wasa very capable person in many ways, though so childish and innocentin others. She made up her mind to the course she should pursue whenthe coach set her down at Feversham. She asked for a man to carry hertrunk, and show her the way to Hamley Hall.
"Hamley Hall!" said the innkeeper. "Eh! there's a deal o' troublethere just now."
"I know, I know," said she, hastening off after the wheelbarrow inwhich her trunk was going, and breathlessly struggling to keep upwith it, her heavy child asleep in her arms. Her pulses beat all overher body; she could hardly see out of her eyes. To her, a foreigner,the drawn blinds of the house, when she came in sight of it, had nosignificance; she hurried, stumbled on.
"Back door or front, missus?" asked the boots from the inn.
"The most nearest," said she. And the front door was "the mostnearest." Molly was sitting with the Squire in the darkeneddrawing-room, reading out her translations of Aimee's letters to herhusband. The Squire was never weary of hearing them; the very soundof Molly's voice soothed and comforted him, it was so sweet and low.And he pulled her up, much as a child does, if on a second reading ofthe same letter she substituted one word for another. The house wasvery still this afternoon,--still as it had been now for severaldays; every servant in it, however needlessly, moving about ontiptoe, speaking below the breath, and shutting doors as softlyas might be. The nearest noise or stir of active life was that ofthe rooks in the trees, who were beginning their spring chatter ofbusiness. Suddenly, through this quiet, there came a ring at thefront-door bell that sounded, and went on sounding, through thehouse, pulled by an ignorant vigorous hand. Molly stopped reading;she and the Squire looked at each other in surprised dismay. Perhapsa thought of Roger's sudden (and impossible) return was in the mindof each; but neither spoke. They heard Robinson hurrying to answerthe unwonted summons. They listened; but they heard no more. Therewas little more to hear. When the old servant opened the door,a lady with a child in her arms stood there. She gasped out herready-prepared English sentence,--
"Can I see Mr. Osborne Hamley? He is ill, I know; but I am his wife."
Robinson had been aware that there was some mystery, long suspectedby the servants, and come to light at last to the master,--he hadguessed that there was a young woman in the case; but when she stoodthere before him, asking for her dead husband as if he were living,any presence of mind Robinson might have had forsook him; he couldnot tell her the truth,--he could only leave the door open, and sayto her, "Wait awhile, I'll come back," and betake himself to thedrawing-room where Molly was, he knew. He went up to her in a flutterand a hurry, and whispered something to her which turned her whitewith dismay.
"What is it? What is it?" said the Squire, trembling with excitement."Don't keep it from me. I can bear it. Roger--"
They both thought he was going to faint; he had risen up and comeclose to Molly; suspense would be worse than anything.
"Mrs. Osborne Hamley is here," said Molly. "I wrote to tell her herhusband was very ill, and she has come."
"She does not know what has happened, seemingly," said Robinson.
"I can't see her--I can't see her," said the Squire, shrinking awayinto a corner. "You will go, Molly, won't you? You'll go."
Molly stood for a moment or two, irresolute. She, too, shrank fromthe interview. Robinson put in his word: "She looks but a weaklything, and has carried a big baby, choose how far, I didn't stop toask."
At this instant the door softly opened, and right into the midst ofthem came the little figure in grey, looking ready to fall with theweight of her child.
"You are Molly," said she, not seeing the Squire at once. "The ladywho wrote the letter; he spoke of you sometimes. You will let me goto him."
Molly did not answer, except that at such moments the eyes speaksolemnly and comprehensively. Aimee read their meaning. All she saidwas,--"He is not--oh, my husband--my husband!" Her arms relaxed, herfigure swayed, the child screamed and held out his arms for help.That help was given him by his grandfather, just before Aimee fellsenseless on the floor.
"Maman, maman!" cried the little fellow, now striving and fighting toget back to her, where she lay; he fought so lustily that the Squirehad to put him down, and he craw
led to the poor inanimate body,behind which sat Molly, holding the head; whilst Robinson rushed awayfor water, wine, and more womankind.
"MAMAN, MAMAN!"]
"Poor thing, poor thing!" said the Squire, bending over her, andcrying afresh over her suffering. "She is but young, Molly, and shemust ha' loved him dearly."
"To be sure!" said Molly, quickly. She was untying the bonnet, andtaking off the worn, but neatly mended gloves; there was the softluxuriant black hair, shading the pale, innocent face,--the littlenotable-looking brown hands, with the wedding-ring for sole ornament.The child clustered his fingers round one of hers, and nestled upagainst her with his plaintive cry, getting more and more into aburst of wailing: "Maman, maman!" At the growing acuteness of hisimploring, her hand moved, her lips quivered, consciousness camepartially back. She did not open her eyes, but great heavy tearsstole out from beneath her eyelashes. Molly held her head againsther own breast; and they tried to give her wine,--which she shrankfrom--water, which she did not reject; that was all. At last shetried to speak. "Take me away," she said, "into the dark. Leave mealone."
So Molly and the woman lifted her up and carried her away, and laidher on the bed, in the best bed-chamber in the house, and darkenedthe already shaded light. She was like an unconscious corpse herself,in that she offered neither assistance nor resistance to all thatthey were doing. But just before Molly was leaving the room to takeup her watch outside the door, she felt rather than heard that Aimeespoke to her.
"Food--bread and milk for baby." But when they brought her foodherself, she only shrank away and turned her face to the wall withouta word. In the hurry, the child had been left with Robinson andthe Squire. For some unknown, but most fortunate reason, he took adislike to Robinson's red face and hoarse voice, and showed a mostdecided preference for his grandfather. When Molly came down shefound the Squire feeding the child, with more of peace upon his facethan there had been for all these days. The boy was every now andthen leaving off taking his bread and milk to show his dislike toRobinson by word and gesture: a proceeding which only amused the oldservant, while it highly delighted the more favoured Squire.
"She is lying very still, but she will neither speak nor eat. I don'teven think she is crying," said Molly, volunteering this account, forthe Squire was for the moment too much absorbed in his grandson toask many questions.
Robinson put in his word: "Dick Hayward, he's Boots at the HamleyArms, says the coach she come by started at five this morning fromLondon, and the passengers said she'd been crying a deal on the road,when she thought folks were not noticing; and she never came in tomeals with the rest, but stopped feeding her child."
"She'll be tired out; we must let her rest," said the Squire. "And Ido believe this little chap is going to sleep in my arms. God blesshim."
But Molly stole out, and sent off a lad to Hollingford with a note toher father. Her heart had warmed towards the poor stranger, and shefelt uncertain as to what ought to be the course pursued in her case.
She went up from time to time to look at the girl, scarce older thanherself, who lay there with her eyes open, but as motionless asdeath. She softly covered her over, and let her feel the sympatheticpresence from time to time; and that was all she was allowed to do.The Squire was curiously absorbed in the child, but Molly's supremetenderness was for the mother. Not but what she admired the sturdy,gallant, healthy little fellow, whose every limb, and square inch ofclothing, showed the tender and thrifty care that had been taken ofhim. By-and-by the Squire said in a whisper,--
"She's not like a Frenchwoman, is she, Molly?"
"I don't know. I don't know what Frenchwomen are like. People sayCynthia is French."
"And she didn't look like a servant? We won't speak of Cynthia sinceshe's served my Roger so. Why, I began to think, as soon as I couldthink after _that_, how I would make Roger and her happy, and havethem married at once; and then came that letter! I never wanted herfor a daughter-in-law, not I. But he did, it seems; and he wasn't onefor wanting many things for himself. But it's all over now; only wewon't talk of her; and maybe, as you say, she was more French thanEnglish. This poor thing looks like a gentlewoman, I think. I hopeshe's got friends who'll take care of her,--she can't be abovetwenty. I thought she must be older than my poor lad!"
"She's a gentle, pretty creature," said Molly. "But--but I sometimesthink it has killed her; she lies like one dead." And Molly could notkeep from crying softly at the thought.
"Nay, nay!" said the Squire. "It's not so easy to break one's heart.Sometimes I've wished it were. But one has to go on living--'allthe appointed days,' as it says in the Bible. But we'll do our bestfor her. We'll not think of letting her go away till she's fit totravel."
Molly wondered in her heart about this going away, on which theSquire seemed fully resolved. She was sure that he intended to keepthe child; perhaps he had a legal right to do so;--but would themother ever part from it? Her father, however, would solve thedifficulty,--her father, whom she always looked to as so clear-seeingand experienced. She watched and waited for his coming. The Februaryevening drew on the child lay asleep in the Squire's arms till hisgrandfather grew tired, and laid him down on the sofa: the largesquare-cornered yellow sofa upon which Mrs. Hamley used to sit,supported by pillows in a half-reclining position. Since her time ithad been placed against the wall, and had served merely as a pieceof furniture to fill up the room. But once again a human figure waslying upon it; a little human creature, like a cherub in some oldItalian picture. The Squire remembered his wife as he put the childdown. He thought of her as he said to Molly,--
"How pleased she would have been!" But Molly thought of the pooryoung widow upstairs. Aimee was her "she" at the first moment.Presently,--but it seemed a long long time first,--she heard thequick prompt sounds which told of her father's arrival. In hecame--to the room as yet only lighted by the fitful blaze of thefire.