Lady Cumnor had so far recovered from the violence of her attack, and from the consequent operation, as to be able to be removed to the Towers for change of air; and accordingly she was brought thither by her whole family with all the pomp and state becoming an invalid peeress. There was every probability that ‘the family’ would make a longer residence at the Towers than they had done for several years, during which time they had been wanderers hither and thither in search of health. Somehow, after all, it was very pleasant and restful to come to the old ancestral home, and every member of the family enjoyed it in his or her own way; Lord Cumnor most especially. His talent for gossip and his love of small details had scarcely fair play in the hurry of a London life, and were much nipped in the bud during his Continental sojournings, as he neither spoke French fluently, nor understood it easily when spoken. Besides, he was a great proprietor, and liked to know how his land was going on; how his tenants were faring in the world. He liked to hear of their births, marriages, and deaths, and had something of a royal memory for faces. In short, if ever a peer was an old woman, Lord Cumnor was that peer; but he was a very good-natured old woman, and rode about on his stout old cob with his pockets full of halfpence for the children, and little packets of snuff for the old people. Like an old woman, too, he enjoyed an afternoon cup of tea in his wife’s sitting-room, and over his gossip’s beverage he would repeat all that he had learnt in the day. Lady Cumnor was exactly in that state of convalescence when such talk as her lord’s was extremely agreeable to her, but she had contemned the habit of listening to gossip so severely all her life, that she thought it due to consistency to listen first, and enter a supercilious protest afterwards. It had, however, come to be a family habit for all of them to gather together in Lady Cumnor’s room on their return from their daily walks or drives or rides, and over the fire, sipping their tea at her early meal, to recount the morsels of local intelligence they had heard during the morning. When they had said all that they had to say (and not before), they had always to listen to a short homily from her ladyship on the well-worn texts — the poorness of conversation about persons — the probable falsehood of all they had heard, and the degradation of character implied by its repetition. On one of these November evenings they were all assembled in Lady Cumnor’s room. She was lying — all draped in white, and covered up with an Indian shawl — on a sofa near the fire. Lady Harriet sate on the rug, close before the wood-fire, picking up fallen embers with a pair of dwarf tongs, and piling them on the red and odorous heap in the centre of the hearth. Lady Cuxhaven, notable from girlhood, was using the blind man’s holiday to net fruit-nets for the walls at Cuxhaven Park. Lady Cumnor’s woman was trying to see to pour out tea by the light of one small wax-candle in the background (for Lady Cumnor could not bear much light to her weakened eyes); I and the great leafless branches of the trees outside the house kept sweeping against the windows, moved by the wind that was gathering.
It was always Lady Cumnor’s habit to snub those she loved best. Her husband was perpetually snubbed by her, yet she missed him now that he was later than usual, and professed not to want her tea; but they all knew that it was only because he was not there to hand it to her, and be found fault with for his invariable stupidity in forgetting that she liked to put sugar in before she took any cream. At length he burst in.
‘I beg your pardon, my lady — I’m later than I should have been, I know. Why, haven’t you had your tea yet?’ he exclaimed, bustling about to get the cup for his wife.
‘You know I never take cream before I’ve sweetened it,’ said she, with even more emphasis on the ‘never’ than usual.
‘To be sure! What a simpleton I am! I think I might have remembered it by this time. You see I met old Sheepshanks, and that’s the reason of it.’
‘Of your handing me the cream before the sugar?’ asked his wife. It was one of her grim jokes.
‘No, no! ha, ha! You’re better this evening, I think, my dear. But, as I was saying, Sheepshanks is such an eternal talker, there’s no getting away from him, and I had no idea it was so late!’
‘Well, I think the least you can do is to tell us something of Mr Sheepshanks’ conversation now you have torn yourself away from him.’
‘Conversation! did I call it conversation? I don’t think I said much. I listened. He really has always a great deal to say. More than Preston, for instance. And, by the way, he was telling me something about Preston; — old Sheepshanks thinks he’ll be married before long — he says there’s a great deal of gossip going on about him and Gibson’s daughter. They’ve been caught meeting in the park, and corresponding, and all that kind of thing that is likely to end in a marriage.’
‘I shall be very sorry,’ said Lady Harriet. ‘I always liked that girl; and I can’t bear papa’s model land-agent.’
‘I daresay it’s not true,’ said Lady Cumnor, in a very audible aside to Lady Harriet. ‘Papa picks up stories one day to contradict them the next.’
‘Ah, but this did sound like truth. Sheepshanks said all the old ladies in the town had got hold of it, and were making a great scandal out of it.’
‘I don’t think it does sound quite a nice story. I wonder what Clare could be doing to allow such goings on,’ said Lady Cuxhaven.
‘I think it is much more likely that Clare’s own daughter — that pretty pawky Miss Kirkpatrick — is the real heroine of this story,’ said Lady Harriet. ‘She always looks like a heroine of genteel comedy, and those young ladies were capable of a good deal of innocent intriguing, if I remember rightly. Now little Molly Gibson has a certain gaucherie about her which would disqualify her at once from any clandestine proceedings. Besides, “clandestine!” why, the child is truth itself. Papa, are you sure Mr. Sheepshanks said it was Miss Gibson that was exciting Hollingford scandal? Wasn’t it Miss Kirkpatrick? The notion of her and Mr. Preston making a match of it does not sound so incongruous; but, if it’s my little friend Molly, I’ll go to church and forbid the banns.’
‘Really, Harriet, I can’t think what always makes you take such an interest in all these petty Hollingford affairs.’
‘Mamma, it’s only tit for tat. They take the most lively interest in all our sayings and doings. If I were going to be married, they would want to know every possible particular — where we first met, what we first said to each other, what I wore, and whether he offered by letter or in person. I’m sure those good Miss Brownings were wonderfully well-informed as to Mary’s methods of managing her nursery, and educating her girls; so it’s only a proper return of the compliment to want to know on our side how they are going on. I am quite of papa’s faction. I like to hear all the local gossip.’
‘Especially when it is flavoured with a spice of scandal and impropriety, as in this case,’ said Lady Cumnor, with the momentary bitterness of a convalescent invalid. Lady Harriet coloured with annoyance. But then she rallied her courage, and said with more gravity than before —
‘I am really interested in this story about Molly Gibson, I own. I both like and respect her; and I do not like to hear her name coupled with that of Mr. Preston. I can’t help fancying papa has made some mistake.’
‘No, my dear. I’m sure I’m repeating what I heard. I’m sorry I said anything about it, if it annoys you or my lady there. Sheepshanks did say Miss Gibson, though, and he went on to say it was a pity the girl had got herself so talked about; for it was the way they had carried on that gave rise to all the chatter. Preston himself was a very fair match for her, and nobody could have objected to it. But I’ll try and find a more agreeable piece of news. Old Margery at the lodge is dead; and they don’t know where to find some one to teach clear-starching at your school; and Robert Hall made forty pounds last year by his apples.’ So they drifted away from Molly and her affairs; only Lady Harriet kept turning what she had heard over in her own mind with interest and wonder.
‘I warned her against him the day of her father’s wedding. And what a straightforward, out-spoken lassie it was then! I don’t believe it; it’s only one of old Sheepshanks’ stories, half invention and half deafness.’
The next day Lady Harriet rode over to Hollingford, and for the settling of her curiosity she called on the Miss Brownings, and introduced the subject. She would not have spoken about the rumour she had heard to any who were not warm friends of Molly’s. If Mr Sheepshanks had chosen to allude to it when she had been riding with her father, she would very soon have silenced him by one of the haughty looks she knew full well how to assume. But she felt as if she must know the truth, and accordingly she began thus abruptly to Miss Browning —
‘What is all this I hear about my little friend Molly Gibson and Mr Preston?’
‘Oh, Lady Harriet! have you heard of it? We are so sorry!’
‘Sorry for what?’
‘I think, begging your ladyship’s pardon, we had better not say any more till we know how much you know,’ said Miss Browning.
‘Nay,’ replied Lady Harriet, laughing a little, ‘I shan’t tell what I know till I am sure you know more. Then we’ll make an exchange if you like.’
‘I’m afraid it’s no laughing Matter for poor Molly,’ said Miss Browning, shaking her head. ‘People do say such things!’
‘But I don’t believe them; indeed I don’t,’ burst in Miss Phoebe, half crying.
‘No more will I, then,’ said Lady Harriet, taking the good lady’s hand.
‘It’s all very fine, Phoebe, saying you don’t believe them, but I should like to know who it was that convinced me, sadly against my will, I am sure.’
‘I only told you the facts as Mrs. Goodenough told them me, sister; but I’m sure if you had seen poor patient Molly as I have done, sitting up in a corner of a room, looking at the Beauties of England and Wales till she must have been sick of them, and no one speaking to her; and she as gentle and sweet as ever at the end of the evening, though maybe a bit pale — facts or no facts, I won’t believe anything against her.’
So there sate Miss Phoebe, in tearful defianc............