Part 68 (1/2)
”Gracious goodness me!” exclaimed Miss Phoebe, receiving it at once as gospel. ”How do you know?”
”By putting two and two together. Didn't you notice how red Molly went, and then pale, and how she said she knew for a fact that Mr.
Preston and Cynthia Kirkpatrick were not engaged?”
”Perhaps not engaged; but Mrs. Goodenough saw them loitering together, all by their own two selves--”
”Mrs. Goodenough only crossed Heath Lane at the s.h.i.+re Oak, as she was riding in her phaeton,” said Miss Browning sententiously. ”We all know what a coward she is in a carriage, so that most likely she had only half her wits about her, and her eyes are none of the best when she is standing steady on the ground. Molly and Cynthia have got their new plaid shawls just alike, and they trim their bonnets alike, and Molly is grown as tall as Cynthia since Christmas. I was always afraid she'd be short and stumpy, but she's now as tall and slender as anyone need be. I'll answer for it, Mrs. Goodenough saw Molly, and took her for Cynthia.”
When Miss Browning ”answered for it” Miss Phoebe gave up doubting.
She sate some time in silence revolving her thoughts. Then she said:
”It wouldn't be such a very bad match after all, sister.” She spoke very meekly, awaiting her sister's sanction to her opinion.
”Phoebe, it would be a bad match for Mary Pearson's daughter. If I had known what I know now we'd never have had him to tea last September.”
”Why, what do you know?” asked Miss Phoebe.
”Miss Hornblower told me many things; some that I don't think you ought to hear, Phoebe. He was engaged to a very pretty Miss Gregson, at Henwick, where he comes from; and her father made inquiries, and heard so much that was bad about him that he made his daughter break off the match, and she's dead since!”
”How shocking!” said Miss Phoebe, duly impressed.
”Besides, he plays at billiards, and he bets at races, and some people do say he keeps race-horses.”
”But isn't it strange that the earl keeps him on as his agent?”
”No! perhaps not. He's very clever about land, and very sharp in all law affairs; and my lord isn't bound to take notice--if indeed he knows--of the manner in which Mr. Preston talks when he has taken too much wine.”
”Taken too much wine! Oh, sister, is he a drunkard? and we have had him to tea!”
”I didn't say he was a drunkard, Phoebe,” said Miss Browning, pettishly. ”A man may take too much wine occasionally, without being a drunkard. Don't let me hear you using such coa.r.s.e words, Phoebe!”
Miss Phoebe was silent for a time after this rebuke.
Presently she said, ”I do hope it wasn't Molly Gibson.”
”You may hope as much as you like, but I'm pretty sure it was.
However, we'd better say nothing about it to Mrs. Goodenough; she has got Cynthia into her head, and there let her rest. Time enough to set reports afloat about Molly when we know there's some truth in them.
Mr. Preston might do for Cynthia, who's been brought up in France, though she has such pretty manners; but it may have made her not particular. He must not, and he shall not, have Molly, if I go into church and forbid the banns myself; but I'm afraid--I'm afraid there's something between her and him. We must keep on the look-out, Phoebe. I'll be her guardian angel, in spite of herself.”
CHAPTER XLI.
GATHERING CLOUDS.
[Ill.u.s.tration (unt.i.tled)]
Mrs. Gibson came back full of rose-coloured accounts of London. Lady c.u.mnor had been gracious and affectionate, ”so touched by my going up to see her so soon after her return to England,” Lady Harriet charming and devoted to her old governess, Lord c.u.mnor ”just like his dear usual hearty self;” and as for the Kirkpatricks, no Lord Chancellor's house was ever grander than theirs, and the silk gown of the Q.C. had floated over housemaids and footmen. Cynthia, too, was so much admired; and as for her dress, Mrs. Kirkpatrick had showered down ball-dresses and wreaths, and pretty bonnets and mantles, like a fairy G.o.dmother. Mr. Gibson's poor present of ten pounds shrank into very small dimensions compared with all this munificence.
”And they're so fond of her, I don't know when we shall have her back,” was Mrs. Gibson's winding-up sentence. ”And now, Molly, what have you and papa been doing? Very gay, you sounded in your letter.
I had not time to read it in London; so I put it in my pocket, and read it in the coach coming home. But, my dear child, you do look so old-fas.h.i.+oned with your gown made all tight, and your hair all tumbling about in curls. Curls are quite gone out. We must do your hair differently,” she continued, trying to smooth Molly's black waves into straightness.