When Mr. Gibson returned to Hollingford, he found an accumulation of business waiting for him, and he was much inclined to complain of the consequences of the two days’ comparative holiday, which had resulted in over-work for the week to come. He had hardly time to speak to his family, he had so immediately to rush off to pressing cases of illness. But Molly managed to arrest him in the hall, standing there with his great coat held out ready for him to put on, but whispering as she did so —
‘Papa! Mr. Osborne Hamley was here to see you yesterday. He looks very ill, and he’s evidently frightened about himself.’
Mr. Gibson faced about, and looked at her for a moment; but all he said was —
‘I’ll go and see him; don’t tell your mother where I’m gone: you’ve not mentioned this to her, I hope?’
‘No,’ said Molly, for she had only told Mrs. Gibson of Osborne’s call, not of the occasion for it.
‘Don’t say anything about it: there’s no need. Now I think of it, I can’t possibly go today — but I will go.’
Something in her father’s manner disheartened Molly, who had persuaded herself that Osborne’s evident illness was partly ‘nervous,’ by which she meant imaginary. She had dwelt upon his looks of enjoyment at Miss Phoebe’s perplexity, and thought that no one really believing himself to be in danger could have given the merry glances which he had done; but after seeing the seriousness of her father’s face, she recurred to the shock she had experienced on first seeing Osborne’s changed appearance. All this time Mrs. Gibson was busy reading a letter from Cynthia which Mr. Gibson had brought from London; for every opportunity of private conveyance was seized upon when postage was so high; and Cynthia had forgotten so many things in her hurried packing, that she now sent a list of the clothes which she required. Molly almost wondered that it had not come to her; but she did not understand the sort of reserve that was springing up in Cynthia’s mind towards her. Cynthia herself struggled with the feeling, and tried to fight against it by calling herself ‘ungrateful,’ but the truth was she believed that she no longer held her former high place in Molly’s estimation and she could not help turning away from one who knew things to her discredit. She was fully aware of Molly’s prompt decision and willing action, where action was especially disagreeable, on her behalf; she knew that Molly would never bring up the past errors and difficulties; but still the consciousness that the good, straightforward girl had learnt that Cynthia had been guilty of so much underhand work cooled her regard, and restrained her willingness of intercourse. Reproach herself with ingratitude as she would, she could not help feeling glad to be away from Molly; it was awkward to speak to her as if nothing had happened; it was awkward to write to her about forgotten ribbons and laces, when their last conversation had been on such different subjects, and had called out such vehement expressions of feeling. So Mrs. Gibson held the list in her hand, and read out the small fragments of news that were intermixed with notices of Cynthia’s requirements.
‘Helen cannot be so very ill,’ said Molly at length, ‘or Cynthia would not want her pink muslin and daisy wreath.’
‘I don’t see that that follows, I’m sure,’ replied Mrs. Gibson rather sharply. ‘Helen would never be so selfish as to tie Cynthia to her side, however ill she was. Indeed, I should not have felt that it was my duty to let Cynthia go to London at all, if I had thought she was to be perpetually exposed to the depressing atmosphere of a sick-room. Besides, it must be so good for Helen to have Cynthia coming in with bright pleasant accounts of the parties she has been to — even if Cynthia disliked gaiety I should desire her to sacrifice herself and go out as much as she could, for Helen’s sake. My idea of nursing is that one should not be always thinking of one’s own feelings and wishes, but doing those things which will most serve to beguile the weary hours of an invalid. But then so few people have had to consider the subject so deeply as I have done!’ Mrs. Gibson here thought fit to sigh before going on with Cynthia’s letter. As far as Molly could make any sense out of this rather incoherent epistle, very incoherently read aloud to her, Cynthia was really pleased and glad to be of use and comfort to Helen, but at the same time very ready to be easily persuaded into the perpetual small gaieties which abounded in her uncle’s house in London, even at this dead season of the year. Mrs. Gibson came upon Mr. Henderson’s name once, and then went on with a running um-um-um to herself, which sounded very mysterious, but which might as well have been omitted, as all that Cynthia really said about him was, ‘Mr. Henderson’s mother has advised my aunt to consult a certain Dr Donaldson, who is said to be very clever in such cases as Helen’s, but my uncle is not sufficiently sure of the professional etiquette, &c.’ Then there came a very affectionate, carefully worded message to Molly — implying a good deal more than was said of loving gratitude for the trouble she had taken on Cynthia’s behalf. And that was all; and Molly went away a little depressed; she knew not why.
The operation on Lady Cumnor had been successfully performed, and in a few days they hoped to bring her down to the Towers to recruit her strength in the fresh country air; the case was one which interested Mr. Gibson extremely, and in which his opinion had been proved to be right, in opposition to that of one or two great names in London. The consequence was that he was frequently consulted and referred to during the progress of her recovery; and, as he had much to do in the immediate circle of his Hollingford practice, as well as to write thoughtful letters to his medical brethren in London, he found it difficult to spare the three or four hours necessary to go over to Hamley to see Osborne. He wrote to him, however, begging him to reply immediately and detail his symptoms; and from the answer he received he did not imagine that the case was immediately pressing. Osborne, too, deprecated his coming over to Hamley for the express purpose of seeing him. So the visit was deferred to that more convenient season which is so often too late.
All these days the buzzing gossip about Molly’s meetings with Mr Preston, her clandestine correspondence, the tete-a-tete interviews in lonely places, had been gathering strength, and assuming the positive form of scandal. The simple innocent girl, who walked through the quiet streets without a thought of being the object of mysterious implications, became for a time the unconscious black sheep of the town. Servants heard part of what was said in their mistresses’ drawing-rooms, and exaggerated the sayings amongst themselves with the coarse strengthening of expression common amongst uneducated people. Mr. Preston himself became aware that her name was being coupled with his, though hardly to the extent to which the love of excitement and gossip had carried people’s speeches; he chuckled over the mistake, but took no pains to correct it. ‘It serves her right,’ said he to himself, ‘for meddling with other folk’s business,’ and he felt himself avenged for the discomfiture which her menace of appealing to Lady Harriet had caused him, and the mortification he had experienced in learning from her plain-speaking lips, how he had been talked over by Cynthia and herself, with personal dislike on the one side, and evident contempt on the other. Besides, if any denial of Mr. Preston’s stirred up an examination as to the real truth, more might come out of his baffled endeavours to compel Cynthia to keep to her engagement to him than he cared to have known. He was angry with himself for still loving Cynthia; loving her in his own fashion, be it understood. He told himself that many a woman of more position and wealth would be glad enough to have him; some of them pretty women too. And he asked himself why he was such a confounded fool as to go on hankering after a penniless girl, who was as fickle as the wind? The answer was silly enough, logically; but forcible in fact. Cynthia was Cynthia, and not Venus herself could have been her substitute. In this one thing Mr. Preston was more really true than many worthy men, who, seeking to be married, turn with careless facility from the unattainable to the attainable, and keep their feelings and fancy tolerably loose till they find a woman who consents to be their wife. But no one would ever be to Mr. Preston what Cynthia had been, and was; and yet he could have stabbed her in certain of his moods. So, Molly, who had come between him and the object of his desire, was not likely to find favour in his sight, or to obtain friendly actions from him.
There came a time — not very distant from the evening at Mrs Dawes’— when Molly felt that people looked askance at her. Mrs Goodenough openly pulled her grand-daughter away, when the young girl stopped to speak to Molly in the street, and an engagement which the two had made for a long walk together was cut very short by a very trumpery excuse. Mrs. Goodenough explained her conduct in the following manner to some of her friends —
‘You see, I don’t think the worse of a girl for meeting her sweetheart here and there and everywhere, till she gets talked about; but then when she does — and Molly Gibson’s name is in everybody’s mouth — I think it’s only fair to Bessy, who has trusted me with Annabella, not to let her daughter be seen with a lass who has managed her matters so badly, as to set folk talking about her. My maxim is this — and it’s a very good working one, you may depend on’t — women should mind what they’re about, and never be talked of; and if a woman’s talked of, the less her friends have to do with her till the talk has died away, the better. So Annabella is not to have anything to do with Molly Gibson, this visit at any rate.’
For a good while the Miss Brownings were kept in ignorance of the evil tongues that whispered hard words about Molly. Miss Browning was known to ‘have a temper,’ and by instinct every one who came in contact with her shrank from irritating that temper by uttering the slightest syllable against the smallest of those creatures over whom she spread the aegis of her love. She would and did reproach them herself; she used to boast that she never spared them, but no one else might touch them with the slightest slur of a passing word. But Miss Phoebe inspired no such terror; the great reason why she did not hear of the gossip against Molly as early as any one, was that, although she was not the rose, she lived near the rose. Besides, she was of so tender a nature that even thick-skinned Mrs Goodenough was unwilling to say what would give Miss Phoebe pain; and it was the new-comer Mrs. Dawes, who in all ignorance alluded to the town’s talk, as to something of which Miss Phoebe must be aware. Then Miss Phoebe poured down her questions, although she protested, even with tears, her total disbelief in all the answers she received. It was a small act of heroism on her part to keep all that she there learnt a secret from her sister Sally, as she did for four or five days; till Miss Browning attacked her one evening with the following speech —
‘Phoebe! either you’ve some reason for puffing yourself out with sighs, or you’ve not. If you have a reason, it’s your duty to tell it me directly; and if you’ve no reason, you must break yourself of a bad habit that is growing upon you.’
‘Oh, sister! do you think it is really my duty to tell you? It would be such a comfort; but then I thought I ought not; it will distress you so.’
‘Nonsense. I am so well prepared for misfortune by the frequent contemplation of its possibility that I believe I can receive any ill news with apparent equanimity and real resignation. Besides, when you said yesterday at breakfast-time that you meant to give up the day to making your drawers tidy, I was aware that some misfortune was impending, though of course I could not judge of its magnitude. Is the Highchester Bank broken?’
‘Oh no, sister!’ said Miss Phoebe, moving to a seat close to her sister’s on the sofa. ‘Have you really been thinking that! I wish I had told you what I heard at the very first, if you’ve been fancying that!’
‘Take warning, Phoebe, and learn to have no concealments from me. I did think we must be ruined, from your ways of going on; eating no meat at dinner, and sighing continually. And now what is it?’
‘I hardly know how to tell you, Sally. I really don’t.’
Miss Phoebe began to cry; Miss Browning took hold of her arm, and gave her a little sharp shake.
‘Cry as much as you like when you’ve told me; but don’t cry now, child, when you’re keeping me on the tenterhooks.’
‘Molly Gibson has lost her character, sister. That’s it.’
‘Molly Gibson has done no such thing!’ said Miss Browning indignantly. ‘How dare you repeat such stories about poor Mary’s child! Never let me hear you say such things again!’
‘I can’t help it. Mrs. Dawes told me; and she says it’s all over the town. I told her I did not believe a word of it. And I kept it from you; and I think I should have been really ill if I’d kept it to myself any longer. Oh, sister! what are you going to do?’
For Miss Browning had risen without speaking a word, and was leaving the room in a stately and determined fashion.
‘I am going to put on my bonnet and things, and then I shall call upon Mrs. Dawes, and confront her with her lies.’
‘Oh, don’t call them “lies,............