And now it was late June; and to Molly’s and her father’s extreme urgency in pushing, and Mr. and Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s affectionate persistency¹ in pulling, Cynthia had yielded, and had gone back to finish her interrupted visit in London, but not before the bruit² of her previous sudden return to nurse Molly, had told strongly in her favour in the fluctuating opinion of the little town. Her affair with Mr. Preston was thrust into the shade; while every one was speaking of her warm heart. Under the gleam of Molly’s recovery everything assumed a rosy³ hue⁴, as indeed became the time when actual roses were actually in bloom.

One morning Mrs. Gibson brought Molly a great basket of flowers, that bad been sent from the Hall. Molly still breakfasted in bed, but had just come down, and was now well enough to arrange the flowers for the drawing-room, and as she did so with these blossoms, she made some comments on each.

‘Ah! these white pinks! They were Mrs. Hamley’s favourite flower; and so like her! This little bit of sweetbrier, it quite scents⁵ the room. It has pricked⁶ my fingers, but never mind. Oh, mamma, look at this rose! I forget its name, but it is very rare, and grows up in the sheltered corner of the wall, near the mulberry-tree. Roger bought the tree for his mother with his own money when he was quite a boy; he showed it me, and made me notice it.’

‘I daresay it was Roger who got it now. You heard papa say he had seen him yesterday.’

‘No! Roger! Roger come home!’ said Molly, turning first red, then very white.

‘Yes. Oh, I remember you had gone to bed before papa came in, and he was called off early to tiresome⁷ Mrs. Beale. Yes, Roger turned up at the Hall the day before yesterday.’

But Molly leaned back against her chair, too faint to do more at the flowers for some time. She had been startled by the suddenness of the news. ‘Roger come home!’

分享到：