CHAPTER 2. A NOVICE AMONGST THE GREAT FOLK

At ten o'clock on the eventful Thursday the Towers' carriage began its
work. Molly was ready long before it made its first appearance, although
it had been settled that she and the Miss Brownings were not to go until
the last, or fourth, time of its coming. Her face had been soaped,
scrubbed, and shone brilliantly clean; her frills, her frock, her ribbons
were all snow-white. She had on a black mode cloak that had been her
mother's; it was trimmed round with rich lace, and looked quaint and
old-fashioned on the child. For the first time in her life she wore kid
gloves; hitherto she had only had cotton ones. Her gloves were far too
large for the little dimpled fingers, but as Betty had told her they were to
last her for years, it was all very well. She trembled many a time, and
almost turned faint once with the long expectation of the morning. Betty
might say what she liked about a watched pot never boiling; Molly never
ceased to watch the approach through the winding street, and after two
hours the carriage came for her at last. She had to sit very forward to
avoid crushing the Miss Brownings' new dresses; and yet not too
forward, for fear of incommoding fat Mrs. Goodenough and her niece,
who occupied the front seat of the carriage; so that altogether the fact of
sitting down at all was rather doubtful, and to add to her discomfort,
Molly felt herself to be very conspicuously placed in the centre of the
carriage, a mark for all the observation of Hollingford. It was far too
much of a gala day for the work of the little town to go forward with its
usual regularity. Maid-servants gazed out of upper windows;
shopkeepers' wives stood on the door-steps; cottagers ran out, with
babies in their arms; and little children, too young to know how to
behave respectfully at the sight of an earl's carriage, huzzaed merrily as it
bowled along. The woman at the lodge held the gate open, and dropped a
low curtsey to the liveries. And now they were in the Park; and now they
were in sight of the Towers, and silence fell upon the carriage-full of
ladies, only broken by one faint remark from Mrs. Goodenough's niece, a
stranger to the town, as they drew up before the double semicircle flight
of steps which led to the door of the mansion.
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"They call that a perron, I believe, don't they?" she asked. But the only
answer she obtained was a simultaneous "hush." It was very awful, as
Molly thought, and she half wished herself at home again. But she lost all
consciousness of herself by-and-by when the party strolled out into the
beautiful grounds, the like of which she had never even imagined. Green
velvet lawns, bathed in sunshine, stretched away on every side into the
finely wooded park; if there were divisions and ha-has between the soft
sunny sweeps of grass, and the dark gloom of the forest-trees beyond,
Molly did not see them; and the melting away of exquisite cultivation
into the wilderness had an inexplicable charm to her. Near the house
there were walls and fences; but they were covered with climbing roses,
and rare honeysuckles and other creepers just bursting into bloom.
There were flower-beds, too, scarlet, crimson, blue, orange; masses of
blossom lying on the greensward. Molly held Miss Browning's hand very
tight as they loitered about in company with several other ladies, and
marshalled by a daughter of the Towers, who seemed half amused at the
voluble admiration showered down upon every possible thing and place.
Molly said nothing, as became her age and position, but every now and
then she relieved her full heart by drawing a deep breath, almost like a
sigh. Presently they came to the long glittering range of greenhouses and
hothouses, and an attendant gardener was there to admit the party.
Molly did not care for this half so much as for the flowers in the open air;
but Lady Agnes had a more scientific taste, she expatiated on the rarity
of this plant, and the mode of cultivation required by that, till Molly
began to feel very tired, and then very faint. She was too shy to speak for
some time; but at length, afraid of making a greater sensation if she
began to cry, or if she fell against the stands of precious flowers, she
caught at Miss Browning's hand, and gasped out—
"May I go back, out into the garden? I can't breathe here!"
"Oh, yes, to be sure, love. I daresay it's hard understanding for you, love;
but it's very fine and instructive, and a deal of Latin in it too."
She turned hastily round not to lose another word of Lady Agnes' lecture
on orchids, and Molly turned back and passed out of the heated
atmosphere. She felt better in the fresh air; and unobserved, and at
liberty, went from one lovely spot to another, now in the open park, now
in some shut-in flower-garden, where the song of the birds, and the drip
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of the central fountain, were the only sounds, and the tree-tops made an
enclosing circle in the blue June sky; she went along without more
thought as to her whereabouts than a butterfly has, as it skims from
flower to flower, till at length she grew very weary, and wished to return
to the house, but did not know how, and felt afraid of encountering all
the strangers who would be there, unprotected by either of the Miss
Brownings. The hot sun told upon her head, and it began to ache. She
saw a great wide-spreading cedar-tree upon a burst of lawn towards
which she was advancing, and the black repose beneath its branches
lured her thither. There was a rustic seat in the shadow, and weary Molly
sate down there, and presently fell asleep.
She was startled from her slumbers after a time, and jumped to her feet.
Two ladies were standing by her, talking about her. They were perfect
strangers to her, and with a vague conviction that she had done
something wrong, and also because she was worn-out with hunger,
fatigue, and the morning's excitement, she began to cry.
"Poor little woman! She has lost herself; she belongs to some of the
people from Hollingford, I have no doubt," said the oldest-looking of the
two ladies; she who appeared to be about forty, though she did not really
number more than thirty years. She was plain-featured, and had rather a
severe expression on her face; her dress was as rich as any morning dress
could be; her voice deep and unmodulated,—what in a lower rank of life
would have been called gruff; but that was not a word to apply to Lady
Cuxhaven, the eldest daughter of the earl and countess. The other lady
looked much younger, but she was in fact some years the elder; at first
sight Molly thought she was the most beautiful person she had ever seen,
and she was certainly a very lovely woman. Her voice, too, was soft and
plaintive, as she replied to Lady Cuxhaven,—
"Poor little darling! she is overcome by the heat, I have no doubt—such a
heavy straw bonnet, too. Let me untie it for you, my dear."
Molly now found voice to say—"I am Molly Gibson, please. I came here
with Miss Brownings;" for her great fear was that she should be taken for
an unauthorized intruder.
"Miss Brownings?" said Lady Cuxhaven to her companion, as if
inquiringly.
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"I think they were the two tall large young women that Lady Agnes was
talking about."
"Oh, I daresay. I saw she had a number of people in tow;" then looking
again at Molly, she said, "Have you had anything to eat, child, since you
came? You look a very white little thing; or is it the heat?"
"I have had nothing to eat," said Molly, rather piteously; for, indeed,
before she fell asleep she had been very hungry.
The two ladies spoke to each other in a low voice; then the elder said in a
voice of authority, which, indeed, she had always used in speaking to the
other, "Sit still here, my dear; we are going to the house, and Clare shall
bring you something to eat before you try to walk back; it must be a
quarter of a mile at least." So they went away, and Molly sat upright,
waiting for the promised messenger. She did not know who Clare might
be, and she did not care much for food now; but she felt as if she could
not walk without some help. At length she saw the pretty lady coming
back, followed by a footman with a small tray.
"Look how kind Lady Cuxhaven is," said she who was called Clare. "She
chose you out this little lunch herself; and now you must try and eat it,
and you'll be quite right when you've had some food, darling—You need
not stop, Edwards; I will bring the tray back with me."
There was some bread, and some cold chicken, and some jelly, and a
glass of wine, and a bottle of sparkling water, and a bunch of grapes.
Molly put out her trembling little hand for the water; but she was too
faint to hold it. Clare put it to her mouth, and she took a long draught
and was refreshed. But she could not eat; she tried, but she could not;
her headache was too bad. Clare looked bewildered. "Take some grapes,
they will be the best for you; you must try and eat something, or I don't
know how I shall get you to the house."
"My head aches so," said Molly, lifting her heavy eyes wistfully.
"Oh, dear, how tiresome!" said Clare, still in her sweet gentle voice, not
at all as if she was angry, only expressing an obvious truth. Molly felt
very guilty and very unhappy. Clare went on, with a shade of asperity in
her tone: "You see, I don't know what to do with you here if you don't eat
enough to enable you to walk home. And I've been out for these three
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hours trapesing about the grounds till I'm as tired as can be, and missed
my lunch and all." Then, as if a new idea had struck her, she said,—"You
lie back in that seat for a few minutes, and try to eat the bunch of grapes,
and I'll wait for you, and just be eating a mouthful meanwhile. You are
sure you don't want this chicken?"
Molly did as she was bid, and leant back, picking languidly at the grapes,
and watching the good appetite with which the lady ate up the chicken
and jelly, and drank the glass of wine. She was so pretty and so graceful
in her deep mourning, that even her hurry in eating, as if she was afraid
of some one coming to surprise her in the act, did not keep her little
observer from admiring her in all she did.
"And now, darling, are you ready to go?" said she, when she had eaten up
everything on the tray. "Oh, come; you have nearly finished your grapes;
that's a good girl. Now, if you will come with me to the side entrance, I
will take you up to my own room, and you shall lie down on the bed for
an hour or two; and if you have a good nap your headache will be quite
gone."
So they set off, Clare carrying the empty tray, rather to Molly's shame;
but the child had enough work to drag herself along, and was afraid of
offering to do anything more. The "side entrance" was a flight of steps
leading up from a private flower-garden into a private matted hall, or
ante-room, out of which many doors opened, and in which were
deposited the light garden-tools and the bows and arrows of the young
ladies of the house. Lady Cuxhaven must have seen their approach, for
she met them in this hall as soon as they came in.
"How is she now?" she asked; then glancing at the plates and glasses, she
added, "Come, I think there can't be much amiss! You're a good old
Clare, but you should have let one of the men fetch that tray in; life in
such weather as this is trouble enough of itself."
Molly could not help wishing that her pretty companion would have told
Lady Cuxhaven that she herself had helped to finish up the ample
luncheon; but no such idea seemed to come into her mind. She only
said,—"Poor dear! she is not quite the thing yet; has got a headache, she
says. I am going to put her down on my bed, to see if she can get a little
sleep."
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Molly saw Lady Cuxhaven say something in a half-laughing manner to
"Clare," as she passed her; and the child could not keep from tormenting
herself by fancying that the words spoken sounded wonderfully like
"Over-eaten herself, I suspect." However, she felt too poorly to worry
herself long; the little white bed in the cool and pretty room had too
many attractions for her aching head. The muslin curtains flapped softly
from time to time in the scented air that came through the open
windows. Clare covered her up with a light shawl, and darkened the
room. As she was going away Molly roused herself to say, "Please,
ma'am, don't let them go away without me. Please ask somebody to
waken me if I go to sleep. I am to go back with Miss Brownings."
"Don't trouble yourself about it, dear; I'll take care," said Clare, turning
round at the door, and kissing her hand to little anxious Molly. And then
she went away, and thought no more about it. The carriages came round
at half-past four, hurried a little by Lady Cumnor, who had suddenly
become tired of the business of entertaining, and annoyed at the
repetition of indiscriminating admiration.
"Why not have both carriages out, mamma, and get rid of them all at
once?" said Lady Cuxhaven. "This going by instalments is the most
tiresome thing that could be imagined." So at last there had been a great
hurry and an unmethodical way of packing off every one at once. Miss
Browning had gone in the chariot (or "chawyot," as Lady Cumnor called
it;—it rhymed to her daughter, Lady Hawyot—or Harriet, as the name
was spelt in the Peerage), and Miss Phœbe had been speeded along with
several other guests, away in a great roomy family conveyance, of the
kind which we should now call an "omnibus." Each thought that Molly
Gibson was with the other, and the truth was, that she lay fast asleep on
Mrs. Kirkpatrick's bed—Mrs. Kirkpatrick née Clare.
The housemaids came in to arrange the room. Their talking aroused
Molly, who sat up on the bed, and tried to push back the hair from her
hot forehead, and to remember where she was. She dropped down on her
feet by the side of the bed, to the astonishment of the women, and said,—
"Please, how soon are we going away?"
"Bless us and save us! who'd ha' thought of any one being in the bed? Are
you one of the Hollingford ladies, my dear? They are all gone this hour or
more!"
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"Oh, dear, what shall I do? That lady they call Clare promised to waken
me in time. Papa will so wonder where I am, and I don't know what Betty
will say."
The child began to cry, and the housemaids looked at each other in some
dismay and much sympathy. Just then, they heard Mrs. Kirkpatrick's
step along the passages, approaching. She was singing some little Italian
air in a low musical voice, coming to her bedroom to dress for dinner.
One housemaid said to the other, with a knowing look, "Best leave it to
her;" and they passed on to their work in the other rooms.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick opened the door, and stood aghast at the sight of Molly.
"Why, I quite forgot you!" she said at length. "Nay, don't cry; you'll make
yourself not fit to be seen. Of course I must take the consequences of
your over-sleeping yourself, and if I can't manage to get you back to
Hollingford to-night, you shall sleep with me, and we'll do our best to
send you home to-morrow morning."
"But papa!" sobbed out Molly. "He always wants me to make tea for him;
and I have no night-things."
"Well, don't go and make a piece of work about what can't be helped
now. I'll lend you night-things, and your papa must do without your
making tea for him to-night. And another time don't over-sleep yourself
in a strange house; you may not always find yourself among such
hospitable people as they are here. Why now, if you don't cry and make a
figure of yourself, I'll ask if you may come in to dessert with Master
Smythe and the little ladies. You shall go into the nursery, and have some
tea with them; and then you must come back here and brush your hair
and make yourself tidy. I think it is a very fine thing for you to be
stopping in such a grand house as this; many a little girl would like
nothing better."
During this speech she was arranging her toilette for dinner—taking off
her black morning gown; putting on her dressing-gown; shaking her long
soft auburn hair over her shoulders, and glancing about the room in
search of various articles of her dress,—a running flow of easy talk came
babbling out all the time.
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"I have a little girl of my own, dear! I don't know what she would not give
to be staying here at Lord Cumnor's with me; but, instead of that, she has
to spend her holidays at school; and yet you are looking as miserable as
can be at the thought of stopping for just one night. I really have been as
busy as can be with those tiresome—those good ladies, I mean, from
Hollingford—and one can't think of everything at a time."
Molly—only child as she was—had stopped her tears at the mention of
that little girl of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, and now she ventured to say,—
"Are you married, ma'am; I thought she called you Clare?"
In high good-humour Mrs. Kirkpatrick made reply:—"I don't look as if I
was married, do I? Every one is surprised. And yet I have been a widow
for seven months now: and not a grey hair on my head, though Lady
Cuxhaven, who is younger than I, has ever so many."
"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 over-slept 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,
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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 especial charge 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 diningroom 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 sate next to Lord Cumnor, made a little sign to Molly to
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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," 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.
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"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 over-sleep 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; 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
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looking for something to amuse her. But, of course, it was a trouble, and
she ought never to have been there.
By-and-by, Mrs. Kirkpatrick was called away to accompany Lady Agnes'
song; and then Molly really had a few minutes' enjoyment. She could
look round the room, unobserved, and, sure, never was any place out of a
king's house so grand and magnificent. Large mirrors, velvet curtains,
pictures in their gilded frames, a multitude of dazzling lights decorated
the vast saloon, and the floor was studded with groups of ladies and
gentlemen, all dressed in gorgeous attire. Suddenly Molly bethought her
of the children whom she had accompanied into the dining-room, and to
whose ranks she had appeared to belong,—where were they? Gone to bed
an hour before, at some quiet signal from their mother. Molly wondered
if she might go, too—if she could ever find her way back to the haven of
Mrs. Kirkpatrick's bedroom. But she was at some distance from the door;
a long way from Mrs. Kirkpatrick, to whom she felt herself to belong
more than to any one else. Far, too, from Lady Cuxhaven, and the
terrible Lady Cumnor, and her jocose and good-natured lord. So Molly
sate on, turning over pictures which she did not see; her heart growing
heavier and heavier in the desolation of all this grandeur. Presently a
footman entered the room, and after a moment's looking about him, he
went up to Mrs. Kirkpatrick, where she sate at the piano, the centre of
the musical portion of the company, ready to accompany any singer, and
smiling pleasantly as she willingly acceded to all requests. She came now
towards Molly, in her corner, and said to her,—
"Do you know, darling, your papa has come for you, and brought your
pony for you to ride home; so I shall lose my little bedfellow, for I
suppose you must go?"
Go! was there a question of it in Molly's mind, as she stood up quivering,
sparkling, almost crying out loud. She was brought to her senses, though,
by Mrs. Kirkpatrick's next words.
"You must go and wish Lady Cumnor good-night, you know, my dear,
and thank her ladyship for her kindness to you. She is there, near that
statue, talking to Mr. Courtenay."
Yes! she was there—forty feet away—a hundred miles away! All that
blank space had to be crossed; and then a speech to be made!
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"Must I go?" asked Molly, in the most pitiful and pleading voice possible.
"Yes; make haste about it; there is nothing so formidable in it, is there?"
replied Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a sharper voice than before, aware that they
were wanting her at the piano, and anxious to get the business in hand
done as soon as possible.
Molly stood still for a minute, then, looking up, she said, softly,—
"Would you mind coming with me, please?"
"No! not I!" said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, seeing that her compliance was likely
to be the most speedy way of getting through the affair; so she took
Molly's hand, and, on the way, in passing the group at the piano, she
said, smiling, in her pretty genteel manner,—
"Our little friend here is shy and modest, and wants me to accompany
her to Lady Cumnor to wish good-night; her father has come for her, and
she is going away."
Molly did not know how it was afterwards, but she pulled her hand out of
Mrs. Kirkpatrick's on hearing these words, and going a step or two in
advance came up to Lady Cumnor, grand in purple velvet, and dropping
a curtsey, almost after the fashion of the school-children, she said,—
"My lady, papa is come, and I am going away; and, my lady, I wish you
good-night, and thank you for your kindness. Your ladyship's kindness, I
mean," she said, correcting herself as she remembered Miss Browning's
particular instructions as to the etiquette to be observed to earls and
countesses, and their honourable progeny, as they were given that
morning on the road to the Towers.
She got out of the saloon somehow; she believed afterwards, on thinking
about it, that she had never bidden good-by to Lady Cuxhaven, or Mrs.
Kirkpatrick, or "all the rest of them," as she irreverently styled them in
her thoughts.
Mr. Gibson was in the housekeeper's room, when Molly ran in, rather to
the stately Mrs. Brown's discomfiture. She threw her arms round her
father's neck. "Oh, papa, papa, papa! I am so glad you have come;" and
then she burst out crying, stroking his face almost hysterically as if to
make sure he was there.
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"Why, what a noodle you are, Molly! Did you think I was going to give up
my little girl to live at the Towers all the rest of her life? You make as
much work about my coming for you, as if you thought I had. Make
haste, now, and get on your bonnet. Mrs. Brown, may I ask you for a
shawl, or a plaid, or a wrap of some kind to pin about her for a
petticoat?"
He did not mention that he had come home from a long round not half
an hour before, a round from which he had returned dinnerless and
hungry; but, on finding that Molly had not come back from the Towers,
he had ridden his tired horse round by Miss Brownings', and found them
in self-reproachful, helpless dismay. He would not wait to listen to their
tearful apologies; he galloped home, had a fresh horse and Molly's pony
saddled, and though Betty called after him with a riding-skirt for the
child, when he was not ten yards from his own stable-door, he refused to
turn back for it, but went off, as Dick the stableman said, "muttering to
himself awful."
Mrs. Brown had her bottle of wine out, and her plate of cake, before
Molly came back from her long expedition to Mrs. Kirkpatrick's room,
"pretty nigh on to a quarter of a mile off," as the housekeeper informed
the impatient father, as he waited for his child to come down arrayed in
her morning's finery with the gloss of newness worn off. Mr. Gibson was
a favourite in all the Towers' household, as family doctors generally are;
bringing hopes of relief at times of anxiety and distress; and Mrs. Brown,
who was subject to gout, especially delighted in petting him whenever he
would allow her. She even went out into the stable-yard to pin Molly up
in the shawl, as she sate upon the rough-coated pony, and hazarded the
somewhat safe conjecture,—
"I daresay she'll be happier at home, Mr. Gibson," as they rode away.
Once out into the park Molly struck her pony, and urged him on as hard
as he would go. Mr. Gibson called out at last:
"Molly! we're coming to the rabbit-holes; it's not safe to go at such a
pace. Stop." And as she drew rein he rode up alongside of her.
"We're getting into the shadow of the trees, and it's not safe riding fast
here."
23
"Oh! papa, I never was so glad in all my life. I felt like a lighted candle
when they're putting the extinguisher on it."
"Did you? How d'ye know what the candle feels?"
"Oh, I don't know, but I did." And again, after a pause she said,—"Oh, I
am so glad to be here! It is so pleasant riding here in the open, free, fresh
air, crushing out such a good smell from the dewy grass. Papa! are you
there? I can't see you."
He rode close up alongside of her: he was not sure but what she might be
afraid of riding in the dark shadows, so he laid his hand upon hers.
"Oh! I am so glad to feel you," squeezing his hand hard. "Papa, I should
like to get a chain like Ponto's, just as long as your longest round, and
then I could fasten us two to each end of it, and when I wanted you I
could pull, and if you didn't want to come, you could pull back again; but
I should know you knew I wanted you, and we could never lose each
other."
"I'm rather lost in that plan of yours; the details, as you state them, are a
little puzzling; but if I make them out rightly, I am to go about the
country, like the donkeys on the common, with a clog fastened to my
hind leg."
"I don't mind your calling me a clog, if only we were fastened together."
"But I do mind you calling me a donkey," he replied.
"I never did. At least I didn't mean to. But it is such a comfort to know
that I may be as rude as I like."
"Is that what you've learnt from the grand company you've been keeping
to-day? I expected to find you so polite and ceremonious, that I read a
few chapters of Sir Charles Grandison, in order to bring myself up to
concert pitch."
"Oh, I do hope I shall never be a lord or a lady."
"Well, to comfort you, I'll tell you this: I'm sure you'll never be a lord;
and I think the chances are a thousand to one against your ever being the
other, in the sense in which you mean."
24
"I should lose myself every time I had to fetch my bonnet, or else get
tired of long passages and great staircases long before I could go out
walking."
"But you'd have your lady's-maid, you know."
"Do you know, papa, I think lady's-maids are worse than ladies. I should
not mind being a housekeeper so much."
"No! the jam-cupboards and dessert would lie very conveniently to one's
hand," replied her father, meditatively. "But Mrs. Brown tells me that the
thought of the dinners often keeps her from sleeping; there's that anxiety
to be taken into consideration. Still, in every condition of life, there are
heavy cares and responsibilities."
"Well! I suppose so," said Molly, gravely. "I know Betty says I wear her
life out with the green stains I get in my frocks from sitting in the cherrytree."
"And Miss Browning said she had fretted herself into a headache with
thinking how they had left you behind. I'm afraid you'll be as bad as a bill
of fare to them to-night. How did it all happen, goosey?"
"Oh, I went by myself to see the gardens; they are so beautiful! and I lost
myself, and sat down to rest under a great tree; and Lady Cuxhaven and
that Mrs. Kirkpatrick came; and Mrs. Kirkpatrick brought me some
lunch, and then put me to sleep on her bed,—and I thought she would
waken me in time, and she didn't; and so they'd all gone away; and when
they planned for me to stop till to-morrow, I didn't like saying how very,
very much I wanted to go home,—but I kept thinking how you would
wonder where I was."
"Then it was rather a dismal day of pleasure, goosey, eh?"
"Not in the morning. I shall never forget the morning in that garden. But
I was never so unhappy in all my life, as I have been all this long
afternoon."
Mr. Gibson thought it his duty to ride round by the Towers, and pay a
visit of apology and thanks to the family, before they left for London. He
found them all on the wing, and no one was sufficiently at liberty to
listen to his grateful civilities but Mrs. Kirkpatrick, who, although she
25
was to accompany Lady Cuxhaven, and pay a visit to her former pupil,
made leisure enough to receive Mr. Gibson, on behalf of the family; and
assured him of her faithful remembrance of his great professional
attention to her in former days in the most winning manner.