‘Why do they call you “Clare”?’ continued Molly, finding her so affable and communicative.
‘Because I lived with them when I was Miss Clare. It is a pretty name, isn’t it? I married a Mr. Kirkpatrick; he was only a curate, poor fellow; but he was of a very good family, and if three of his relations had died without children I should have been a baronet’s wife. But Providence did not see fit to permit it; and we must always resign ourselves to what is decreed. Two of his cousins married, and had large families; and poor dear Kirkpatrick died, leaving me a widow.’
‘You have a little girl?’ asked Molly.
‘Yes: darling Cynthia! I wish you could see her; she is my only comfort now. If I have time I will show you her picture when we come up to bed; but I must go now. It does not do to keep Lady Cumnor waiting a moment, and she asked me to be down early, to help with some of the people in the house. Now I shall ring this bell, and when the housemaid comes, ask her to take you into the nursery, and to tell Lady Cuxhaven’s nurse who you are. And then you’ll have tea with the little ladies, and come in with them to dessert. There! I’m sorry you’ve overslept yourself, and are left here; but give me a kiss, and don’t cry—you really are rather a pretty child, though you’ve not got Cynthia’s colouring! Oh, Nanny, would you be so very kind as to take this young lady—(what’s your name, my dear? Gibson?),—Miss Gibson, to Mrs. Dyson, in the nursery, and ask her to allow her to drink tea with the young ladies there; and to send her in with them to dessert. I’ll explain it all to my lady.’
Nanny’s face brightened out of its gloom when she heard the name Gibson; and, having ascertained from Molly that she was ‘the doctor’s child,’ she showed more willingness to comply with Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s request than was usual with her.
Molly was an obliging girl, and fond of children; so, as long as she was in the nursery, she got on pretty well, being obedient to the wishes of the supreme power, and even very useful to Mrs. Dyson, by playing at tricks, and thus keeping a little one quiet while its brothers and sisters were being arrayed in gay attire,—lace and muslin, and velvet, and brilliant broad ribbons.
‘Now, miss,’ said Mrs. Dyson, when her own special charges were all ready, ‘what can I do for you?You have not got another frock here, have you?’ No, indeed, she had not; nor if she had had one, could it have been of a smarter nature than her present thick white dimity. So she could only wash her face and hands, and submit to the nurse’s brushing and perfuming her hair. She thought she would rather have stayed in the park all night long, and slept under the beautiful quiet cedar, than have to undergo the unknown ordeal of ‘going down to dessert,’ which was evidently regarded, both by children and nurses, as the event of the day. At length there was a summons from a footman, and Mrs. Dyson, in a rustling silk gown, marshalled her convoy, and set sail for the dining-room door.
There was a large party of gentlemen and ladies sitting round the decked table, in the brilliantly lighted room. Each dainty little child ran up to its mother, or aunt, or particular friend; but Molly had no one to go to.
‘Who is that tall girl in the thick white frock? Not one of the children of the house, I think?’
The lady addressed put up her glass, gazed at Molly, and dropped it in an instant. ‘A French girl, I should imagine. I know Lady Cuxhaven was inquiring for one to bring up with her little girls, that they might get a good accent early. Poor little woman, she looks wild and strange!’ And the speaker, who sat next to Lord Cumnor, made a little sign to Molly to come to her; Molly crept up to her as to the first shelter; but when the lady began talking to her in French, she blushed violently, and said in a very, low voice,—
‘I don’t understand French. I’m only Molly Gibson, ma’am.’
‘Molly Gibson!’ said the lady, out loud; as if that was not much of an explanation.
Lord Cumnor caught the words and the tone.
‘Oh, ho!’ said he. ‘Are you the little girl who has been sleeping in my bed?’
He imitated the deep voice of the fabulous bear, who asks this question of the little child in the story; but Molly had never read the ‘Three Bears,’2 and fancied that his anger was real; she trembled a little, and drew nearer to the kind lady who had beckoned her as to a refuge. Lord Cumnor was very fond of getting hold of what he fancied was a joke, and working his idea threadbare; so all the time the ladies were in the room he kept on his running fire at Molly, alluding to the Sleeping Beauty, the Seven Sleepers, and any other famous sleeper that came into his head. He had no idea of the misery his jokes were to the sensitive girl, who already thought herself a miserable sinner, for having slept on, when she ought to have been awake. If Molly had been in the habit of putting two and two together, she might have found an excuse for herself, by remembering that Mrs. Kirkpatrick had promised faithfully to awaken her in time; but all the girl thought of was, how little they wanted her in this grand house; how she must seem like a careless intruder who had no business there. Once or twice she wondered where her father was, and whether he was missing her; but the thought of the familiar happiness of home brought such a choking in her throat, that she felt she must not give way to it, for fear of bursting out crying; and she had instinct enough to feel that, as she was left at the Towers, the less trouble she gave, the more she kept herself out of observation, the better.
She followed the ladies out of the dining-room, almost hoping that no one would see her. But that was impossible, and she immediately became the subject of conversation between the awful Lady Cumnor and her kind neighbour at dinner.
‘Do you know, I thought this young lady was French when I first saw her? She has got the black hair and eyelashes, and grey eyes, and colourless complexion which one meets with in some parts of France, and I know Lady Cuxhaven was trying to find a well-educated girl who would be a pleasant companion to her children.’
‘No!’ said Lady Cumnor, looking very stern, as Molly thought. ‘She is the daughter of our medical man at Hollingford; she came with the school visitors this morning, and she was overcome by the heat and fell asleep in Clare’s room, and somehow managed to oversleep herself, and did not waken up till all the carriages were gone. We will send her home to-morrow morning, but for to-night she must stay here, and Clare is kind enough to say she may sleep with her.’
There was an implied blame running through this speech, that Molly felt like needle-points all over her. Lady Cuxhaven came up at this moment. Her tone was as deep, her manner of speaking as abrupt and authoritative, as her mother’s, but Molly felt the kinder nature underneath.
‘How are you now, my dear? You look better than you did under the cedar-tree. So you’re to stop here to-night? Clare, don’t you think we could find some of those books of engravings that would interest Miss Gibson?’
Mrs. Kirkpatrick came gliding up to the place where Molly stood; and began petting her with pretty words and actions, while Lady Cuxhaven turned over heavy volumes in search of one that might interest the girl.
‘Poor darling! I saw you come into the dining-room, looking so shy; and I wanted you to come near me, but I could not make a sign to you, because Lord Cuxhaven was speaking to me at the time, telling me about his travels. Ah, here is a nice book—Lodge’s Portraits;3 now I’ll sit by you and tell you who they all are, and all about them. Don’t trouble yourself any more, dear Lady Cuxhaven; I’ll take charge of her; pray leave her to me!’
Molly grew hotter and hotter as these last words met her ear. If they would only leave her alone, and not labour at being kind to her; would ‘not trouble themselves’ about her! These words of Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s seemed to quench the gratitude she was feeling to Lady Cuxhaven for looking for something to amuse her. But, of course, it was a trouble, and she ought never to have been there.