‘Look, Molly!’ said he, as she was on the point of leaving the room again, on finding him there alone. ‘I gathered these flowers for you before breakfast.’ He came to meet her reluctant advance.
‘Thank you!’ said she. ‘You are very kind. I am very much obliged to you.’
‘Then you must do something for me,’ said he, determined not to notice the restraint of her manner, and making the re-arrangement of the flowers which she held as a sort of link between them, so that she could not follow her impulse, and leave the room.
‘Tell me,—honestly as I know you will if you speak at all,—haven’t I done something to vex you since we were so happy at the Towers together?’
His voice was so kind and true—his manner so winning yet wistful, that Molly would have been thankful to tell him all. She believed that he could have helped her more than any one to understand how she ought to behave rightly; he would have disentangled her fancies,—if only he himself had not lain at the very core and centre of all her perplexity and dismay. How could she tell him of Mrs. Goodenough’s words troubling her maiden modesty? How could she ever repeat what his father had said that morning, and assure him that she, no more than he, wished that their old friendliness should be troubled by the thought of a nearer relationship?
‘No, you never vexed me in my whole life, Roger,’ said she, looking straight at him for the first time for many days.
‘I believe you, because you say so. I have no right to ask further, Molly. Will you give me back one of those flowers, as a pledge of what you have said?’
‘Take whichever you like,’ said she, eagerly offering him the whole nosegay to choose from.
‘No; you must choose, and you must give it me.’
Just then the squire came in. Roger would have been glad if Molly had not gone on so eagerly to ransack the bunch for the choicest flower in his father’s presence; but she exclaimed:
‘Oh, please, Mr. Hamley, do you know which is Roger’s favourite flower?’
‘No. A rose, I dare say. The carriage is at the door, and, Molly, my dear, I don’t want to hurry you, but—’
‘I know. Here, Roger,—here is a rose! I will find papa as soon as ever I get home. How is the little boy?’
‘I’m afraid he’s beginning of some kind of a fever.’
And the squire took her to the carriage, talking all the way of the little boy; Roger following, and hardly heeding what he was doing in the answer he kept asking himself: ‘Too late—or not? Can she ever forget that my first foolish love was given to one so different?’
While she, as the carriage rolled away, kept saying to herself,— ‘We are friends again. I don’t believe he will remember what the dear squire took it into his head to suggest for many days. It is so pleasant to be on the old terms again! and what lovely flowers!’
CHAPTER 60
Roger Hamley’s Confession
Roger had a great deal to think of as he turned away from looking after the carriage as long as it could be seen. The day before, he had believed that Molly had come to view all the symptoms of his growing love for her,—symptoms which he thought had been so patent,—as disgusting inconstancy to the inconstant Cynthia; that she had felt that an attachment which could be so soon transferred to another was not worth having; and that she had desired to mark all this by her changed treatment of him, and so to nip it in the bud. But this morning her old sweet, frank manner had returned—in their last interview, at any rate. He puzzled himself hard to find out what could have distressed her at breakfast-time. He even went so far as to ask Robinson whether Miss Gibson had received any letters that morning; and when he heard that she had had one, he tried to believe that the letter was in some way the cause of her sorrow. So far so good. They were friends again after their unspoken difference; but that was not enough for Roger. He felt every day more and more certain that she, and she alone, could make him happy. He had felt this, and had partly given up all hope, while his father had been urging upon him the very course he most desired to take. No need for ‘trying’ to love her, he said to himself,—that was already done. And yet he was very jealous on her behalf. Was that love worthy of her which had once been given to Cynthia? Was not this affair too much a mocking mimicry of the last—again just on the point of leaving England for a considerable time—if he followed her now to her own home,—in the very drawing-room where he had once offered to Cynthia? And then by a strong resolve he determined on his course. They were friends now, and he kissed the rose that was her pledge of friendship. If he went to Africa, he ran some deadly chances; he knew better what they were now than he had done when he went before. Until his return he would not even attempt to win more of her love than he already had. But once safe home again, no weak fancies as to what might or might not be her answer should prevent his running all chances to gain the woman who was to him the one who excelled all. His was not the poor vanity that thinks more of the possible mortification of a refusal than of the precious jewel of a bride that may be won. Somehow or another, please God to send him back safe, he would put his fate to the touch. And till then he would be patient. He was no longer a boy to rush at the coveted object; he was a man capable of judging and abiding.
Molly sent her father, as soon as she could find him, to the Hall; and then sat down to the old life in the home drawing-room, where she missed Cynthia’s bright presence at every turn. Mrs. Gibson was in rather a querulous mood, which fastened itself upon the injury of Cynthia’s letter being addressed to Molly, and not to herself
‘Considering all the trouble I had with her trousseau, I think she might have written to me.’
‘But she did—her first letter was to you, mamma,’ said Molly, her real thoughts still intent upon the Hall—upon the sick child-upon Roger, and his begging for the flower.
‘Yes, just a first letter, three pages long, with an account of her crossing; while to you she can write about fashions and how the bonnets are worn in Paris, and all sorts of interesting things. But poor mothers must never expect confidential letters, I have found that out.’
‘You may see my letter, mamma,’ said Molly, ‘there is really nothing in it.’
‘And to think of her writing, and crossing to youek who don’t value it, while my poor heart is yearning after my lost child! Really, life is somewhat hard to bear at times.’
Then there was silence-for a while.
‘Do tell me something about your visit, Molly. Is Roger very broken-hearted? Does he talk much about Cynthia?’
‘No. He does not mention her often; hardly ever, I think.’
‘I never thought he had much feeling. If he had had, he would not have let her go so easily.’
‘I don’t see how he could help it. When he came to see her after his return, she was already engaged to Mr. Henderson-he had come down that very day,’ said Molly, with perhaps more heat than the occasion required.
‘My poor head!’ said Mrs. Gibson, putting her hands up to her head. ‘One may see you’ve been stopping with people of robust health, and-excuse my saying it, Molly, of your friends-of unrefined habits, you’ve got to talk in so loud a voice. But do remember my head, Molly. So Roger has quite forgotten Cynthia, has he? Oh! what inconstant creatures men are! He will be falling in love with some grandee next, mark my words! They are making a pet and a lion of him, and he’s just the kind of weak young man to have his head turned by it all; and to propose to some fine lady of rank, who would no more think of marrying him than of marrying her footman.’